


The Path Ahead

by EvanHart



Series: The Ever-Winding Road [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, All the Witchers are shaking their heads in exasperation, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blink And You Miss It Non-Human Jaskier, Canon-Typical Violence, Ciri is the only competent one here, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Implied Sexual Content, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, It's not an AU which is a miracle for me, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg Friendship, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kidnapped Jaskier | Dandelion, Like, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Overwhelming amounts of sass, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sass, Slow Burn, Torture, Yennefer is tired of their bullshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:27:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 57,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24573787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvanHart/pseuds/EvanHart
Summary: Geralt knows almost immediately that he’s made a mistake when he sends Jaskier away on that godforsaken mountain. He just doesn’t wholly understand why, and by the time he does it’s too late to change things. Instead, he goes and finds Ciri, and together they find Yennefer, and only then does he realise heneedsto find Jaskier, too.He hadn’t counted on Nilfgaard finding him first.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Ever-Winding Road [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1924246
Comments: 392
Kudos: 1479
Collections: Geralt is Sorry





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *DISCLAIMER*
> 
> Before we get started, I’d just like to say that I own none of these characters or the work that this AU is based on. The Witcher was created by Andrzej Sapkowski, and I do not claim any ownership over it or the books, TV series, movies, or games; nor the world of The Witcher. This is purely creative and not for profit.

Geralt knows Jaskier is in love with him.

How could he not? The bard makes no secret of his affections, turning hard nights chased out of towns into something companionable, spinning tall tales of heroics and adventure in his songs when in reality it had just been a simple, uneventful hunt. Jaskier touches him, smiles at him, _laughs_ , and acts delighted, but he also teases and ribs and acts affronted and is so fucking annoying all the time.

It’s friendship, Geralt has realised. Jaskier might be in love with him, but even so, while it’s still just platonic affection between the two of them – or rather, just from Jaskier, as he never _ever_ reciprocates – it’s more than Geralt has ever really had before. He’s not had the opportunity to get this close to anyone outside of the other Witchers, and even then, it’s only really been Eskel and Lambert.

So, Jaskier is a friend, even if Geralt will never admit it.

He tries to imagine what it would be like if their relationship changed into one of romance, whether the banter and thinly-veiled love songs would disappear with their friendship. He doesn’t want them to, and the thought scares him so much that he hides it away in a locked box deep inside his mind. He’s gruffer for a few weeks after the realisation that maybe he’s grown too attached, surlier than usual, but if Jaskier notices anything he doesn’t mention it other than the usual jabs about Geralt’s monosyllabic answers or varying grunts. Jaskier seems to always know, somehow, and even though he tends to push a bit too far, it’s never irreparable. It comes with the love, Geralt thinks.

It’s not a _real_ love, he’s sure of it, his innermost insecurities and self-loathing thoughts convince him of that. It’s just an unhealthy infatuation – granted, one that’s lasted for over two decades – but nothing more.

Sometimes he wonders what it would be like if it was real, if Jaskier truly saw him as the hero he paints him out to be in his songs, if the honey wine smell that lingers meant more than just mere contentment. It’s true that Jaskier has never smelt of fear, or disgust, or hatred around him – not even the day they met, not even when Geralt punched him in the stomach – but it’s not _love_. Geralt doesn’t even know what _love_ smells like. 

Occasionally he’ll slip, almost believing that Jaskier _does_ love him, that he himself might feel a tendril of reciprocation in his chest. But then he’ll catch a glance of his yellow eyes in a stream, or feel a scar tug on his rough clothes, and he’ll remember. He’s a monster, and monsters are unlovable.

So. Jaskier _can’t_ love him.

That simple fact doesn’t seem to dissuade the ever-loyal bard from trying, it would seem. Geralt has tried to shake him off before, has even outright told him to go away, to leave and never annoy him again, but every time Jaskier laughs it off and stays. He drifts, sometimes, they both do – Geralt taking a contract farther away or Jaskier staying in some court or other as a guest for a few months – but somehow, they always find each other again. The past few years, Jaskier has been looking for him in the spring after spending the winter apart, and curiously, Geralt finds that he doesn’t mind.

It’s nice, sitting in the cold halls of Kaer Morhen where only a handful of them return during the freezing winters, to know that there’s someone out there waiting for him. Someone he can go back to, even if he doesn’t allow himself to show it.

It would be far too dangerous, for both of them, if he were ever to let on to the fact that he cares. People could use Jaskier against him, and Jaskier would have a target on his back – easier and less dangerous to hurt and capture than the company he keeps. He’s heard it said often enough about himself, and Geralt has noticed the words people call Jaskier, too. They’re not as frequent, and often not loud enough that Jaskier can hear, but Geralt hears. He notices.

Fool. Monster lover. _Whore_.

Geralt doesn’t like hearing those things, and it’s entirely too telling of his own feelings. He refrains from calling the people out on their mutterings, as much as he’d like to. He grits his teeth and tries to ignore them, but never entirely successfully. Instead, he hears the words wash over him and bring with them the reminder that Geralt isn’t good for Jaskier, that even without the hunts and the long treks through the wilderness, the threat of people will always remain.

It’s less, now, with Jaskier’s songs gaining more traction and him having been invited to play in a wide variety of courts, but it still happens. And Geralt still ignores it, still doesn’t react. Doesn’t try to intervene unless one of them actively tries to hurt the bard, and then he’s there, sword drawn, snarl on his lips.

Jaskier always thanks him profusely, showering him in compliments and berating the people who usually are cowed into submission from a single glare from the Witcher. Geralt always grunts and brushes the gratitude off, often saying something along the lines of how he wouldn’t have to if Jaskier weren’t such a damn nuisance.

 _Don’t get attached_ , he tells himself, a mantra that repeats over and over in his head nearly every single day. 

_Don’t get attached_ , he hears when he has to bodily haul Jaskier away from yet another barfight he’s started just because someone insulted Witchers. _Don’t get attached_ , when those lute-calloused fingers carefully stitch up a wound on his thigh from fighting a kikimora, a slash on his back that he can’t reach from a warg. _Don’t get attached_ , when Jaskier sings soft and lowly to himself in the quiet of night when the fire is dying down, blue eyes glinting in the light of the embers. _Don’t get attached_.

It’s a bit late for that.

Maybe, he thought at one point, maybe Jaskier would be safer without him. It flashes through his mind after the Djinn happens, when a sharp pang of panic and fear lances through his heart as the blood dribbles between Jaskier’s lips, the swell on this throat and the sound of his choking permeating his ears. Jaskier is healed, and he finds Yennefer, and for a split second he can pretend that Jaskier doesn’t exist, that there’s nothing wrong. Being attached to Yennefer would be preferable – it’s dangerous in a different way, and she’s strong enough to save herself, to not have to follow him around.

Almost immediately after, he feels guilty. Jaskier seems more forlorn, and Geralt knows that he’s fucked up, that he’s made a mistake. He doesn’t know how to fix it, so he ignores it and moves forward. Other than the occasional sniping at Yennefer’s expense, Jaskier lets it go too.

The fear comes back, later, on the mountain, when Yennefer leaves him. Leaving. Probably a good idea. So, he lashes out, and Jaskier leaves.

* * *

Jaskier thinks, sometimes, that _maybe_ Geralt loves him back. He’s not subtle, and there’s no way Geralt hasn’t figured it out by now. They’re friends, at least – Jaskier knows Geralt well enough that if the Witcher really had a problem with him and his feelings, he’d know. He would have been left behind long ago, not just with the comments and jabs insisting he leave, but that are always followed up with a fond eyeroll when Jaskier denies to go. There’s no way Geralt hates him.

It’s a dangerous thought, to imagine that Geralt loves him back. He cares, in his own way, but love? No.

But there’s still some hope that lingers in his chest. He’d thought, after they first met Yennefer, that maybe Geralt _didn’t_ love him, not at all, but then they get back into their swing and Yennefer fades mostly out of mind. Geralt is caring, even if he hates to show it, and he’s funny in his own way and just such a good person that Jaskier knows for sure he’d follow the Witcher around forever, even if he wasn’t a bard, even if he wasn’t head over heels for the man. He’d follow him to the ends of the world if he asked.

On the other hand, though, he’d like for Geralt to do the same for him.

He’s not an idiot, despite any evidence to the contrary, and he knows Geralt wouldn’t. Knows that Geralt may care for him, even if he’s deigned to admit it, but he doesn’t love him. Geralt sees him as an annoying tag-along, but at least they’re friends. They’re _definitely_ friends.

When they meet Yennefer again, doubts start to reappear and fester in his chest. He won’t begrudge Geralt loving someone else, he can deal with that, but did he have to choose _her_ , really? 

He snaps at Yennefer and makes his opinion known, and the hope that he’s had still growing inside of him shrinks down to imperceptible levels when Geralt ignores his protests. He wants Geralt to follow _him_ to the ends of the world, not Yennefer, but there’s no way he’s going to up and leave now. The hope might be diminished, but he knows himself and knows that he’s a stubborn bastard, and he’s still going to follow.

The mountain is not fun. During the ascent, the way he sees how Geralt is drawn to Yennefer the entire time, how they have a kind of magnetic pull. Jaskier feels his heart sinking with every step, but he’s determined. The night after Borch plummets off of the trail, before they’re supposed to confront the dragon, Jaskier sits down beside Geralt on a rock and stares down over the edge of the mountainside.

“You did your best,” he says, as gently as possible. Geralt doesn’t even turn to look at him. “There’s nothing else you could have done.” The wind whistles around them, and Jaskier licks his lips. It’s been a hard day, and he needs to try, at least. “Look, why don’t we leave tomorrow?” he suggests, a little cautiously. “That is, if you’ll give me another chance to prove myself a… _worthy_ travel companion.”

Geralt hums. 

Jaskier knows every one of his hums, knows what each one means. This one is carefully neutral, and it’s enough encouragement for him to continue. “We could head to the coast,” he says tentatively, the hope blossoming again. “Get away for a while. Sounds like something Borch would say, doesn’t it?” He smiles ruefully. “Life is too short, do what pleases you while you can.”

“Composing your next song?” Geralt huffs, and Jaskier relaxes as their banter returns. 

“No, I’m just, uh…” he trails off, thinking. He’s come this far; he might as well try being more obvious than he was already being. “Just trying to work out what pleases me.”

He risks a look over at Geralt, and his hope immediately fades back away as the Witcher doesn’t react, staring out over the vista before standing and walking away. Jaskier is a poet, he knows that he’s good with words, but even he has no idea how to articulate how to put the heartbreak he feels into a song when Geralt gets up and walks straight to Yennefer’s tent.

And it’s okay. He’ll always be second, but maybe he can spend that time the way they always have. That futile thought keeps him warm as he makes up his bedroll for the night, filling his dreams as he sleeps until he wakes up and realises that everyone is gone, leaving him to scramble up and race after them.

He hears a bit of what Borch has said – and he’s still wrapping his mind around the fact that not only is the man alive, but he’s also apparently a _dragon_ – and the tension in Geralt’s shoulders tell him immediately that this is no time for comforting notions. Yennefer has left him, Borch has told him something he doesn’t want to hear. The least Jaskier can do is not mention any of it.

“Phew, what a day,” he says instead, hoping that the usual light-heartedness will help to somewhat alleviate the situation. “I imagine you’re probably –”

“Damn it, Jaskier!” Geralt shouts, whirling around with a snarl on his face that’s so harsh Jaskier has to physically stop himself from taking a step back. He’s seen that expression before, but even on the first day, even when he’s at his most annoying – it’s never been directed at him. Geralt stalks forward. “Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you shovelling it?”

Jaskier blinks, swallows. “Well, that’s just not fair,” he tries, and he can hear his voice breaking on the final word.

“The child surprise,” Geralt snaps, either not hearing or not caring how hurt Jaskier is, how he sounds. “The djinn, all of it!” He raises a finger accusingly, and Jaskier can’t even breathe as he listens to the tirade. “If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take _you_ off my hands.” Geralt glares at him one more time before turning back around, taking a few strides away to stare out of the expanse of the mountain. 

There’s a beat of silence where Jaskier remembers how to breathe, staring at the back of Geralt’s head. “Right, uh… right then,” he says, blinking back tears. He’s not going to give Geralt the satisfaction of seeing how much those words have affected him. “I’ll… I’ll go get the rest of the story from the others.” He pauses again, taking one last look at the man who he’d thought might, just might hold some affection in return. “See you around, Geralt.”

He doesn’t look back, forces himself to keep staring straight ahead as he walks away, back to the edge of the cave to collect his lute and pack, back down the mountain path. Tears prick at the corner of his eyes with every step, but he won’t, he won’t cry over Geralt of fucking Rivia. 

He’s spent too many years of his life on the man.

The path underfoot slowly disappears and it’s just grass now, his own instincts the only thing he follows as he continues on his way. He doesn’t have a guide, any more, or a companion – it’s just him and his thoughts and his precious lute, and even that brings up memories of the first time he met Geralt. Those aren’t good thoughts, now, not anymore. They’re not bad, yet, either – he’s not sure how much time has passed, exactly, it’s the same day, certainly, probably late afternoon by now judging by the height of the sun – but it’s not enough time to have dissipated the feeling of numbness he still has.

Apparently, they're _not_ friends.

He shouldn’t be too shocked, really, Geralt has never said in so many words that he _actually_ liked Jaskier. He’d thought he had, reading between the lines and occasional smiles and even laughs Geralt had let out in their time together. Over two decades, washed away in a span of minutes, destroyed by some words that shouldn’t be so unexpected.

Well, Jaskier thinks vaguely, almost missing a step as he wanders down the side of the mountain. That’s that.


	2. Chapter 2

The reality of Jaskier’s departure doesn’t really settle in until about three months later. They’ve been apart for longer than that before, Geralt is sure – long winters holed up in Kaer Morhen and hot summers where Jaskier flitted away to some large court or another.

As such, the absence of the bard’s irritating chatter and lively disposition doesn’t pose much of a concern, at least not at first. It takes a while before Geralt finally realises that this time, he’s made the separation permanent. When he goes back to Kaer Morhen there won’t be anyone waiting for him in the spring.

It’s that thought more than anything that sobers him. He knows he had gotten too reckless, too unguarded, and that somehow the annoying bard had wormed his way into Geralt’s heart. He still doesn’t completely understand what the emotion is that he’s feeling, it’s certainly not the infatuation or puppy love that Jaskier clearly felt, but it’s some type of unfulfilled longing that stretches into loneliness the more time passes since the incident on the mountain. Geralt isn’t naïve enough to label it _love_ , but it’s something important. Something that he hadn’t been bothered – or was too scared – to name before.

He’s angry with it, too, he had managed on his own without being lonely before Jaskier had come along.

That’s just it, though. No one had invaded his space, had permeated his entire being in such a way as Jaskier had. In the grand scheme of things, scattered weeks and months over a period of two decades wasn’t all that much in the life of a Witcher, but it managed to crawl into the cavity in Geralt’s chest and make a home there, safe and content and wrenched away all too soon by some harsh words. 

Yennefer was different than Jaskier, harsher, more sharp edges to cut himself on. Geralt had never really believed in love before, not the false love that Jaskier displayed that was too impossible to be real, not even the familial love that abandoned him the same moment his mother did. The ties with his brothers – with Eskel and Lambert, and even Coën – and the relationship with Vesemir all did not compare to what Jaskier had been.

He still doesn’t know _what_ Jaskier had been.

And it’s no one’s business but his if – after those first three months, after the newness of being completely alone again wears off – if Geralt stares at the other side of the fire he builds at night for someone who’s not there. If he finds himself getting Roach a few sugar cubes because she’s expecting them, now, but not from him. If his ears prick at the sound of a lute or a minstrel singing in a tavern. He’d made Jaskier leave, and now he has to deal with the consequences.

Jaskier is safe, now, at least.

Well. _Safer_.

The bard always had an incredible propensity for getting himself into trouble, but even with the bar fights and the petty musical rivals, there was never any real danger. Not unless Geralt was around.

He moves on with his life in the same way he always has. He kills a griffin and thinks about how easily it would have been able to snap Jaskier’s body in two, fragile bones splintering beneath almost translucent skin. He sits around his campfire at night and stares off into the darkness beyond it, thinking about how often Jaskier would sit with his back to the woods, strumming his lute with no regard for potential threats. He knows that any hunt could have been his last, but somehow thinking about it being _Jaskier’s_ last is so much more difficult.

It’s hard, knowing that if he turned too late, or was just a touch too slow, or looked away at the wrong moment – there wouldn’t have been anything he could have done to stop Jaskier from getting swallowed whole or ripped to shreds right in front of his eyes. He could never allow that.

He knows, now, too, that he had grown to care far, _far_ more than he would ever have been able to acknowledge, whether to himself or to others or – gods forbid – even Jaskier. He never really wanted Jaskier to leave, even in the heat of the moment when he had yelled on that mountain, he hadn’t intended for the consequences to be this. He had just wanted some peace, with the Djinn, on the mountainside after Yennefer – and, as usual, he’d fucked up and lost the only important constant in his life.

Maybe, he thinks now, almost a year later and curled up alone in the pouring rain by the embers of his fire, maybe he should have made Jaskier leave sooner.

Maybe _he_ was the real danger all along.

Part of him is ashamed that it took him this long to admit that Jaskier is important to him. Vesemir’s words ring in his head, his own thoughts interspersed. _Don’t get attached_. He’d gone and fucked that up.

It wasn’t real love; he tries to remind himself. On Jaskier’s part, at least. He still has no idea what it is on his part, and he really, _really_ doesn’t want to go down that road. He doesn’t want to even contemplate why he allowed the bard’s presence, his company, his words, his touching – for over two decades. It’s a dangerous route, and he knows that if he lingers the self-loathing and anger will return.

He did the right thing; he tries to convince himself. Maybe he didn’t go about it the right way, but the end result can’t be denied. Jaskier is gone, he’s safe, and whatever ridiculous fleeting warmth or tenderness he felt for the disastrous whirlwind that is Jaskier will be long gone soon enough. He’s sure now, too, that Jaskier’s own infatuation will have faded. There’s no way anyone, let alone someone as bright and so suited to luxury would – _could_ – love him. It’s just a fact.

A sobering one, and one that’s kept him alive. 

It’s not _easier_ , exactly, after Geralt makes the decision to keep whatever he feels bottled away. It’s simple, and familiar, and it takes him back to the days of his training, to before Jaskier came into his life and decided to stir up all kinds of chaos. 

He does well, actually – the repression works. Vesemir would shake his head and tell him keeping things bottled up is even worse, but Geralt isn’t sure what else he can do. It’s not like he can go and find Jaskier again, whatever imitation of love had once been there has been completely obliterated by his words on the mountain, he’s well aware of that. He can still recall the way Jaskier’s voice had broken in those last few moments, and he didn’t need to turn around to see how the bard’s expression would have crumpled.

It’s another one of the thoughts that he steadfastly avoids.

His life boils back down to the way it was before. Hunting, shitty ale in even shittier taverns, and then back onto the road. He’s always avoided human contact as much as possible, but he avoids it even more now, forgoing the chance to sleep at an inn in favour of camping out and returning to Kaer Morhen slightly earlier than strictly necessary. He weathers the winter as best he can, ignores the others’ jibes at his apparent moodiness, and ventures back out in the spring.

Jaskier’s not there to greet him, as expected, and his life continues on its monotonous cycle. He kills monsters and shuns human contact, and his purse grows heavier than it has been in a while without the payments towards inns. It’s not until the very end of summer, so late that it should really be called autumn, that he’s forced to venture into a town for more than a few hours. Roach has thrown a shoe, and despite his own adeptness at handling these sorts of situations, he doesn’t have a replacement and she’s limping a bit. He grits his teeth through the overstimulation and marches into town, keeping as low a profile as possible.

He pays upfront and stalks towards the nearest free house he can find. The ale in the tavern isn’t the worst he’s ever had, but it’s not good, either. It’s enough for him to sit at a table in the darkest corner and stay mostly unseen as he sips at it, eyes scanning the room out of habit. It’s a suitable place to stay until the farrier is done with Roach.

The locals are calm, but a bit restless, and pieces of their conversation drift over. Geralt steadfastly ignores them, the twinge he feels as he hears of Nilfgaard’s ever-steady approach north valiantly fighting its way to the surface even as he struggles to suppress it. They’re heading for Cintra, where his Child Surprise is waiting for him, and it’s another feeling of guilt that he’s got to suppress. The child will be safer behind the walls of Cintra’s citadel than they’d ever be roaming the wilderness with him.

When the bard in the middle of the tavern starts playing it’s all Geralt can do not to lob something at the young man’s head, his jaw tightening as he stares down into his tankard even as the other patrons clap politely and sing along a little. It’s subdued, far more than he’s used to after seeing Jaskier’s performances where he’d traipse around the room and flirt and exude energy and get everyone involved. The looming threat might account for the difference.

A couple of the songs Geralt recognises, the usual ballads and drinking songs that are popular the continent over. It’s only the fact that he’s not finished his ale and that Roach still has about an hour at the farrier’s that prevent him from rushing out of the tavern when the bard starts playing some of Jaskier’s songs.

It’s still painful, even after over a year.

“Time for one more, folks?” the bard asks in that upbeat, irritating tone that apparently all bards possess. There’s a low murmur of agreement and Geralt winces, he’d been hoping it was over. “Alright then,” the bard agrees happily. “How about another one of Jaskier’s, eh? It’s a bit more serious, but still relatively new, and one of his best, in my opinion.”

Geralt refrains from looking up. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to him that Jaskier has written new material, has performed it – he was successful enough even with the songs that weren’t about Geralt – but for some reason, it stings. Not the fact that Jaskier is still working, still creating, it’s… _deeper_ , in a way. A kind of sting that comes from a festering combination of jealousy and longing that Geralt has actively been ignoring.

“ _The fairer sex, they often call it_ ,” the bard starts, and Geralt frowns into his tankard. It’s definitely a newer one, in the past year. The chords are familiar as the man continues playing, so Jaskier must have been working on it before they parted ways, but the words are new.

_“She's always bad news  
It's always lose, lose  
So tell me love, tell me love  
How is that just?”_

He frowns harder. It’s not Jaskier’s usual style, he’s been around the man long enough to have gained a frankly alarming amount of knowledge about song composition and the ordering of stanzas, and the exposition in this one isn’t one that he remembers Jaskier using often. 

“It’s contradictory,” the bard had told him once, fingers dancing over the strings of his precious lute. “You _can’t_ use two different types of pronouns in a single song, Geralt. You have to be _consistent_ , otherwise the storytelling will fall through and you’ll lose the flow of the lyrics.”

“Hmm,” Geralt had said, if only to prevent an outburst from Jaskier at him seemingly not paying attention. Instead of avoiding the storm, he’d simply kept going, not quite managing to fully tune out his travelling companion as they continue onwards.

_“But the story is this:  
She'll destroy with her sweet kiss.”_

Ah. That would explain it. Geralt’s frown remains but his shoulders ease back a little bit. The song is about Yennefer.

It’s not the first, either – Jaskier had made no secret of his hatred for the sorceress and had composed a number of little ditties at her expense before Geralt had sharply put an end to it, even though he knew Jaskier still continued behind his back. There was no love lost between the two, and even though Geralt knew it was from some sort of unsolicited jealousy, he’d never quite understood _why_.

That is, until now.

_“Her current is pulling you closer,  
And charging the hot, humid night  
The red sky at dawn is giving a warning, you fool  
Better stay out of sight.”_

Geralt’s shoulders tense again as he realises what really is bothering him about the song. It’s not the composition, it’s not the direct departure from a rule Jaskier had instilled in him, no, it’s that it’s the first song about Yennefer that’s not harsh or mocking. It’s full of pain and anger, yes – but beneath that there’s want and resignation and even a hint of _pleading_. 

“ _I'm weak my love, and I am wanting_ ,” the bard’s voice dips almost as if he meant for his voice to break on the words at the beginning, but he’s young and unpractised enough that it doesn’t quite work. Geralt’s fingers clench around the handle of his tankard as he realises what that means – that the bard is trying to imitate Jaskier’s performance of the song. That Jaskier had been so emotional during the playing of it that his voice had actually broken.

Jaskier gives every performance his all, Geralt knows that, but he also knows that Jaskier doesn’t like to be vulnerable in front of crowds. He puts on a persona. For him to actually lose control means that… _fuck_.

_“If this is the path I must trudge  
I welcome my sentence  
Give to you my penance  
Garrotter, jury and judge.”_

The bard launches back into the chorus but Geralt, for all his refined Witcher senses and heightened hearing, can barely make out the words over the rush in his own ears. It’s a good song, and the story is clear enough for the people it’s intended for. 

Oh. 

So maybe it _was_ real, then.

And oh _no_ , shit, if it was real, and Geralt still isn’t entirely sure what he feels but he knows it’s not completely platonic, and that if Jaskier really, truly, did _love_ him – then he had ruined so much more than a simple friendship or ill-advised crush. 

Fuck, he really is an idiot.

* * *

Jaskier manages not to think about Geralt for a whole year.

Well, _alright_ , no, that’s a lie.

He’s never been very good about avoiding topics, running his mouth on almost everything that presents itself. This, though, he has kept to himself, he’s not gotten drunk and overshared to strangers, or mentioned to any of his acquaintances that he meets once or twice in the courts he performs at. This is just for him, something to hide and to include in tending when he can bear to look at his broken heart.

Not broken, he’d decided, when the term first occurred to him. More like _shattered_. Trampled, stomped on, walked all over. Utterly destroyed.

It’s not the first time he’s felt the pain of heartbreak, not remotely – he falls in love easily and far too soon – and often ends up with his heart broken. What’s different about this time is that he somehow knows it’s not just the semblance of heartbreak, it’s real. Gods. He’d been pining over that Witcher for over twenty of the best years of his life, and now it seems he’ll never be free of that pain. 

He’s stumbling over a root in the road when he starts to consider that maybe life just has it out for him. That perhaps Destiny has decided to fuck him over time and time again for his own stupid choices, like following a Witcher around the continent before he’d even reached twenty.

And apparently ruining said Witcher’s life in the process.

Jaskier is stubborn enough to know that no matter what Geralt said on that mountain there _had_ been good moments, he’s sure of it – Geralt is not one to share his smiles or laughter lightly and while they’d been sparse, Jaskier did experience a number over the years. He’d memorised every inch of that man’s body, every muscle twitching and every miniscule and fleeting expression. It still hadn’t been enough, it would seem.

He does have some pride left. It’s not a lot, not after what had been said, but if there’s one good thing he managed to get out of his horrible upbringing in a noble family it was the ability to retain his dignity and continue onwards. He goes to various courts and stays there instead of traipsing through the wilderness, because although he’s confident he’d be _fine_ , nothing would happen – he’s still unsure enough to stay far away from anywhere a certain white-haired Witcher would frequent. He might not be able to fix the long list of things Geralt blames him for, but he could at least give him life’s one blessing and stay out of his way. 

And, if he still writes a thinly-veiled song about heartbreak, well. He’s a bard, it’s what they do.

 _Her Sweet Kiss_ turns out to be more of a success than he ever could have imagined, and while he’s exceedingly proud he can feel his heart thundering wildly at the thought of Geralt hearing it, of realising _what_ it’s about. He may have not left Yennefer on the best of terms, but Jaskier is sure the Witcher immediately decided to go and win her back, at least. The two of them just fit together, more than he and Geralt ever could.

He doubts Geralt will hear it, though. Geralt never seemed to favour any kind of music, and always steadfastly ignored it the same way he had back in Posada when Jaskier was young and enterprising and not as bitter about love as he is now.

He stays with an old friend from Oxenfurt at his estate in Temeria for the winter, before moving on to another friend’s for the spring, and it’s not until the beginning of autumn that he finds himself back on the road, travelling on foot to his next destination just like the old times – albeit minus one grumpy Witcher and an equally grumpy horse.

But it’s fine. _He’s_ fine.

His songs are as popular as ever, even if he doesn’t have his muse to accompany him – and longing and heartbreak make for such good themes for his compositions. They’re not the type to win over a drunken crowd in a backwater tavern, but he hasn’t actually been in one of those in a couple months. He might have to, soon enough, the realisation hitting him as the days grow colder and the wind starts biting at him more fiercely than before.

It’s not as though heartbreak makes for a good companion, though. He’s lonely, probably lonelier than he’s been before, because even as he tumbles lords and ladies alike and doesn’t often spend a night alone, the quiet that’s not the same as Geralt’s quiet is too much to handle, he doesn’t feel the same satisfaction as he used to. Physically, yes, but there’s nothing else to it. It’s different, sleeping around, when someone you didn’t _think_ you had a chance with becomes someone you _know_ you don’t have a chance with.

Winter is approaching, and soon enough he finds a nice little town that’s north enough to be removed from the threat of Nilfgaard. It’s not truly safe, and there’s a ton of worry that’s bundled in his chest for poor Ciri. He’d heard the rumours about what had happened there, and he hopes against all odds that she made it out. It would be one piece of good news for his otherwise ruined heart.

It’s winter, he’s alone, and it doesn’t seem like that will change anytime soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two! I hope you all enjoy this one, we'll have Ciri and Yennefer join us in the next part!


	3. Chapter 3

He’s being taken to a farm somewhere.

Time is a strange thing as he slips in and out of consciousness, mind hazy with pain and confusion as he wakes up – but not really – only to fade back into the blackness that leaves him dizzy. The ghosts of people from his past drifting past his vision, their forms vague and flickering, their voices calling out to him. Visenna, Renfri, Yennefer.

 _Jaskier_.

By the time he wakes fully, Yurga is there, calling out to him from the front of the cart. Roach is tied to the back and following along faithfully, and Geralt breathes a bit easier at the sight of her unharmed. His leg throbs and he looks down, sees the makeshift bandage there, spotted faintly with blood.

He remembers the fight, remembers the sharp, searing pain of being bitten. The farmer he’s with now is there too, hauling him onto his cart and treating him as well as he could, at least until Visenna had appeared to him in a vision.

The cart goes over a bump and Geralt grits his teeth, both at the pain and at the memory of his mother. There’s an anger festering deep in his chest, but somewhere there’s a tendril reaching out to him, curling around his heart and tightening with every roll of the wheels. It’s not something that’s dangerous, his fingers almost subconsciously lifting to wrap around his medallion. 

It’s still, not vibrating, so whatever it is can’t be wholly evil.

There’s a break in the trees and Geralt looks up to see the sky overhead appearing through the thinning branches. Ahead of the cart there’s a shout, a woman’s voice, Yurga’s wife come out to greet them. He frowns, looking down at his leg to trace along the area of the wound as the farmer and his wife speak to each other.

“I met a girl,” the woman says, and Geralt’s fingers slip where he’s tightening his bandages. “An orphan. I found her in the woods nearby.”

Renfri’s words ring through his head, and he turns slowly, looking at the stretch of trees surrounding the small clearing. It can’t be, there’s no way that she could be _here_ , of all places. And yet – Destiny has funny ways of rearing its head, as Jaskier used to like to remind him. He pushes up off the cart and onto the solid ground, barely listening to Yurga prattling away to his wife.

The woods welcome him and he walks further into their depths, the confused calls for him fading into the distance as he walks, trancelike. He’s not sure where he’s going, but there’s something curling in his chest, pulling him forwards across the damp forest floor, guiding him towards his destiny.

The wound in his leg throbs once before it too fades into the background, but the woods are quiet around him and it’s with a stab of disappointment that he realises he’s wrong, these are just woods, there’s nothing special here for him. He pauses, glancing down at the ground before turning back around. He’s been wrong before; this isn’t anything new.

He makes it all of ten paces when the tugging sensation returns.

Turning around slowly, he’s frozen in place as the woods seems to lighten, the figure of a girl hurtling towards him in slow-motion from between the trees. There’s nothing he can do but stare as she comes to a stop in front of him, briefly transported back to that disastrous banquet in Cintra all those years ago at the sight of pale blonde hair and light eyes staring up at him. He’s helpless to do anything but open his arms as Cirilla flings herself at him.

The hair on top of her head tickles his chin and he stares out into the forest, unseeing, as a barrage of emotions cascade into him. It’s a lot, especially after repressing every sliver of feeling for over a year, ever since the main source of his outlet had been chased away. He’s left thinking, the thought standing out against the rest of his musings, that it’s a miracle he’s managed to find the girl at all, and that she’s here, _safe_ , with him.

“People linked by Destiny will always find each other,” he recalls, voice hoarse. 

His Child Surprise pulls back, blinking up at him with those wide, bright eyes that are so much like her mother’s had been. He’s startled by the inherent, almost instinctive trust he sees in her expression, and something seems to slot into place in his chest at seeing her alive, and well, and with him. She’s here, and for Destiny, for her parents, and for Jaskier he’s going to keep her safe, make them all proud. He can do that.

Cirilla looks up at him and the trust is still there, still overwhelming, even as a question forms on her lips.

“Who is Yennefer?”

* * *

He’s taken up temporary residence in an abandoned hut when she appears two days later. 

Jaskier’s heard the rumours, he knows what’s happening in the wider world. It’s hard not to, really, as a wandering bard. Rumours and hearsay are part of his trade, something that is alarmingly abundant in his repertoire. Knowing the gossip and current events has, admittedly, gotten him into trouble a few times, but it’s also gotten him _out_ of it. So, he doesn’t regret dabbling.

This time the rumours are more serious than the ones he’s heard before. He’d been travelling north, keeping out of the way of Nilfgaard’s infamous spread, and after what had happened to Cintra only a couple weeks before he’d prefer to _stay_ out of their way. He doesn’t want to think about what had happened to the royal family, doesn’t want to imagine little Ciri’s eyes wide and glassy. He hopes against all odds that somehow Geralt had gotten his head out of his ass and rescued the girl before it happened.

There’s rumour of the Northern Kingdoms sending troops south to counter the foreign threat, and Jaskier decides the best thing for him to do is to hunker down for a few nights and wait out the brewing storm. He hasn’t got enough coin to pay for an inn – the unrest has seen to sparser crowds and shallower pockets – but there’s an abandoned hut close to the northern banks of the Ina that he settles down in. The small village is about a half hour’s walk away, but he is actually rather good at catching small game and starting fires, thank you very much. He can take care of himself until the army passes.

Foltest and his army marches on the other side of the river on the first day, and Jaskier watches silently as Temeria’s troops move south. Others will follow, he knows, has heard the snippets of whispers that mention Sodden Hill as a standing point. There’s sure to be a battle, and he’s not a coward, but he knows he doesn’t belong there.

It’s the morning of the third day when she materialises out of thin air right in front of him, shocking him enough to fall on his ass with a startled yelp as tendrils of smoke and the overwhelming scent of burning fills his nostrils and makes him cough. He’d gone out to go to the river, fill up his waterskin and check on his various traps before returning to his hut. The last of the forces is supposed to move past by the end of the week, and he’s dead-set on going straight to Oxenfurt once they’re out of the way. Better safe than sorry.

Once he’s done coughing – and it feels like he’s hacked up a lung – he looks up from where he’s sprawled out on the grass still damp with early dew to actually _look_ at the figure that startled him. His eyes widen and an involuntary groan bubbles up as the smoke starts to dissipate and he sees the long black hair and entirely too extravagant grey-and-black dress.

Yennefer whips her head up at the noise.

Immediately, there’s a frown on her lips and a matching groan from her throat. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she complains. “Of all the people, it just had to be _you_.”

Jaskier bristles. “Oh, _excuse_ me,” he snaps, sitting upright and reaching for his dropped waterskin. “ _I_ didn’t magically appear out of thin air to scare some poor soul just trying to get a drink. I didn’t invite you here.”

“Obviously,” Yennefer hisses, and it takes Jaskier a moment to realise that she’s hissing in pain, not just in distaste. He blinks, catching sight of the dirt and blood and soot all over her face and dress, eyes finally dropping to her hands and forearms, where the fabric has melted away, leaving bright red burn marks behind. Yennefer’s gaze follows his and she hisses again. “Fuck,” she says emphatically, blood still trickling from her nose.

“Don’t move,” Jaskier tells her as he gets to his feet, because as much as he absolutely hates the witch, she’s clearly hurt.

Yennefer glares at him. “I don’t need your help.”

“Sure.” Jaskier gives her a doubtful look, opening his waterskin and checking the contents. There’s a bit of water still left from the night before – it may be a bit tepid, but it’s better than nothing. He takes the few steps forward to reach Yennefer’s side, kneeling down beside her carefully and watching for any sudden movements. She’s tense, and eyeing him warily, but she’s not outright attacking which is a good sign. “Here,” he says, reaching out to support her with one hand and holding out the water in the other.

Yennefer snarls and darts back, only to stop with a wince that appears to be disguising a louder, more pained noise.

Jaskier sighs. “I know, I know, you don’t need my help, you’re a big bad scary witch,” he grumbles, keeping his arms outstretched. “But you’re obviously hurt, and as much as I wish I had been the one to inflict these lovely wounds, I’m not one to turn away injured sorceresses.”

“You absolutely are,” Yennefer snaps back, but tentatively leans forward and lets him place a hand on her shoulder as he helps her drink. She glares at him the whole time, and the water is gone all too quickly. She’s trembling – out of pain or exhaustion, Jaskier can’t tell – but she looks far too pale for his taste. He doesn’t like the woman, but Geralt would kill him if he left her to die, let alone his _own_ conscience. 

“Okay,” he starts after pulling the waterskin back, trying to piece his thoughts together enough to come up with a half-decent plan. “I’m going to assume that you somehow got involved with that nasty business at Sodden.” A glare tells him he’s right, and he nods. “Now, I _also_ assume you were trying to find Geralt, or whatever, seeing as how the two of you are seemingly attached at the hip. He’s not here.”

“Wasn’t looking for Geralt,” Yennefer spits, and her arms shake as she tries to push herself upright.

Jaskier frowns, reaching out to steady her, and it’s a testament to how hurt and tired she is that she only flinches and doesn’t shove him away outright. “Really?” he asks, and even he can hear the incredulous tone. They’d fought at the mountain too, he knows, but he’d always thought Geralt would have immediately gone to following the sorceress around like a lost puppy. Not unlike what he’d been doing with the Witcher for years, ironically.

“ _Really_ ,” Yennefer confirms, and her voice is growing thinner. Jaskier may not be a healer, but he did study at Oxenfurt and had quite a few friends studying medicine, and he’s pretty sure she’s weakening even from this small amount of effort. Half a moment later her eyes roll back in her head, proving him right, and if he hadn’t darted forward to catch her, she would have slumped straight onto the ground face first. 

“Yennefer!” he shouts, partially out of alarm and partially just to see if she’ll respond. She doesn’t, and it’s only the feeling of her heartbeat steady against his hand that holds back the panic. He sits still for a moment, debating what to do next. Apparently, he’s got a half-dead mage to take care of.

The first order of business is to get Yennefer back to the hut, but she doesn’t make it easy for him. Jaskier is not _weak_ , but he’s not exactly strong, either. In the last year he hasn’t had to do much heavy lifting, and before that – well. He had someone else around to do it for him. 

Eventually he manages to half-carry, half-drag the witch’s prone form back to the hut, laying her out on his bedroll and trying to make her as comfortable as possible before going out to get more water and check his traps. By the riverside he takes a moment to splash cold water onto his face, still somewhat convinced that this is all an elaborate dream, but when nothing changes, he’s forced to admit defeat and wander back to the hut to care for his new-found and unwanted patient.

Yennefer sleeps for six days.

There’s not much Jaskier can do in the meantime, but he dribbles water between her lips to keep her hydrated and tries to feed her all of one time before realising she needs to be awake for him to do that. He cleans her up, and although he’s seen her with practically nothing on before, it’s not an experience he feels compelled to recreate. He washes her dress and puts it back on as discreetly as possible, finally wrapping clean bandages packed with herbs around her arms. The burns are bad, but this far away from civilisation there’s not much else he can do. He only hopes Yennefer has the strength to heal herself when she wakes up.

The last of the armies of the Northern Kingdoms has already passed by a day or two before when Yennefer finally wakes, in the dead of night with nothing but the small fire and moon to provide any light. She flounders against the covers restricting her movements for a few seconds until Jaskier rushes to her side, making shushing noises and reaching out placatingly.

Yennefer freezes, nostrils flaring as her eyes narrow at him. “You,” she says, the single word dripping with venom.

“Me,” Jaskier agrees, and pushes gently at her shoulders. “Come on, lie down. You need to rest.”

Thankfully, she lies back without much protest, but her glare remains even as he settles down beside her and helps her drink – slow, small sips that won’t cause her to choke. Finally, when the waterskin is half-empty, she drops her head back down to the makeshift pillow.

“You found me,” she says, and her voice is hard, but Jaskier has been around Geralt long enough to be able to decipher the underlaying question.

“Yes,” he answers, thinking over his words carefully for how best to explain, then finds there’s not much nuance in the story. “You appeared on the ground in front of me – unannounced, like some common spectre. I managed to get you back here and treat your wounds as best as I could, but the best thing was for you to sleep it off. It’s been a week.”

Yennefer blinks at him, then slowly tears her gaze away to lock onto her bandaged arms, the tips of her fingers barely peaking out of the white wrappings. She frowns. “Fire.”

“You were burned, yes,” Jaskier confirms.

“No.” Yennefer shakes her head, exhaling softly. “No, _I_ burned. I set everything on fire and burned their army to the ground.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen and he shifts back involuntarily. He’d known Yennefer was powerful, had seen some of what she was capable of – but to decimate an entire army by raining fire on them and still have the strength to get away? He almost doesn’t believe it, but the way Yennefer is watching to gauge his reaction tells him otherwise. He swallows nervously. “Okay,” he says, voice hoarse. “Okay, right, uh… _yeah_. That’s… that’s good.”

Yennefer quirks an eyebrow at him. “Good?”

“You know what I mean.” Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Nilfgaard deserves to burn. You can’t expect me to despair at their rightful demise.”

“You never know,” Yennefer says, and Jaskier makes an affronted noise before she continues, voice hardening again. “And they’re not all gone. I just managed to hold Sodden Hill. There will be more.” She pauses, glancing around the hut. “How did I end up _here_?”

“Like I said,” Jaskier begins, and grins as Yennefer sighs at realising she can’t curse him for his tone of voice. “You just appeared. Scared the shit out of me. Said something about being at Sodden, and not looking for Geralt – which, good for you, by the way, maybe that man will finally learn his lesson if _you_ shun him – and then complained that of all people it had to be me. Which is exceedingly rude, I’ll have you know. I’m a delight.”

Yennefer snorts. “Like hell,” she shoots back, then groans, closing her eyes. “Fuck. I portalled to _somewhere safe_. What kind of fucked-up spell did that have to be to bring me to you?”

“ _Somewhere safe_ ,” Jaskier repeats, and suddenly he understands Yennefer’s irritation. “I’m not ‘somewhere safe’,” he protests then, agreeing with the sentiment, and she cracks open one eye to watch him. “I’ve been reliably informed that I am only good for one thing, and that’s ruining other people’s lives. Why would the spell bring you to me?”

“Fuck if I know,” Yennefer replies, reaching up to push her hair out of her face and glaring at her bandaged hand when it doesn’t work. Without fully realising what he’s doing, Jaskier does it for her, continuing his glowering even as her eyes widen.

“What?” he asks.

Yennefer shrugs. “Nothing.”

Jaskier eyes her carefully. “ _What_?”

“ _Nothing_!” Yennefer practically shouts in frustration. “Gods, you’re such an infant. You obviously don’t want me here, and I _certainly_ don’t want to be here. Thank you and all that nonsense but I think I’ll be on my way.”

“Fuck you too,” Jaskier spits, and is a little surprised to find himself pushing her back down again. “No! No, no, no. No. Stay down, you need to rest.” If looks could kill, he’s fairly certain he’d be a smear on the ground by now, but it’s almost worth it for the way she doesn’t fight him and settles back down against the blankets.

Yennefer watches him for a moment. “I still hate you,” she declares eventually.

“So do most people, it would seem. You’re not special.” There’s a beat of silence then, both of them staring at each other, until Yennefer looks away. It feels almost as if they’ve come to an unspoken agreement of sorts, a truce, and the notion doesn’t bring the same feelings of disgust that it would have even a few weeks ago. Jaskier sighs. “Look, we don’t have to _like_ each other, but I’ve been caring for you for a week and I’d really not like to have all of my hard work go to waste. So stay here and heal, and when you can sit up without getting dizzy, feel free to hex me and vanish. Okay?”

It’s quiet again, and Jaskier guesses it’s been at least a full minute before Yennefer finally nods, her glare still present but softened, somewhat. But it’s alright, the day he doesn’t get glared at by the witch is the day they both go mad. He sighs again, sitting back and rubbing a hand over his face. It’s still dark out, some time after midnight if he cared to guess, and the fire is high enough that there’s no real excuse for him to leave the hut. Yennefer is still watching him carefully, assessing. 

“You’re not with Geralt,” she remarks eventually.

Jaskier drops the hand from his face to ensure the mage sees the scathing look sent her way. “How observant of you,” he says dryly.

“Shut up. I mean, Geralt isn’t _here_.”

“Again, observant.”

Yennefer swats an arm at him, and she must be feeling a bit better, because she hardly winces at the movement. “I’ve never met Geralt when he wasn’t with you,” she continues, and holds up her hand to prevent him from interrupting. “Don’t deny it. You follow him around like a lost duckling, but when the times are arguably the most perilous they’ve been in a while, you’re not with him. Why?”

Jaskier swallows, looking away from her startlingly piercing purple eyes. “We had a minor disagreement,” he responds, trying not to think about how bitter those words and the accompanying memories taste.

“A minor disagreement,” Yennefer repeats, unimpressed. 

“Yes,” Jaskier confirms, still refusing to look at her, but he’s sure her eyebrows are practically merging with her hairline by now.

“Just so we’re clear: by minor disagreement, you mean Geralt finally fucked up enough to snap you out of your lovesick daze and stay away?” Yennefer waits for an answer, but Jaskier refuses to give her one. It’s all the confirmation she needs. “That’s what I thought. You forget, bardling, that I know Geralt too. Not as well as _you_ , but I know what he’s like. He’s an idiot at the best of times.”

Jaskier huffs out a laugh despite the twisting feeling in his stomach at the memory of those last few words on the mountain. “We can agree on that, at least,” he concedes, and when he glances over Yennefer’s grin is razor-sharp. “And I wasn’t in a _lovesick daze_. I just had some… _misconceptions_ about the nature of our partnership.”

“You are the most besotted person on the entire continent,” Yennefer tells him, and this time, it’s his turn to glare at her. “Seriously. The only person who could surpass you is _Geralt_.”

“Geralt?” Jaskier startles at that, frowning at her before understanding and familiar resignation set in. “Well, yes, alright, he would do anything for you.”

Yennefer stares at him, still lying on her back and yet somehow radiating power even with her weakened state. “I can’t believe this,” she says eventually, closing her eyes as if in pain of something other than the physical nature of her burns. “You two are the most idiotic, emotionally-repressed men in existence.”

Jaskier bristles, even if he doesn’t really understand the insult. “Now, hold on just a – “

“I’m going to sleep,” she cuts him off, wriggling a bit on her – _Jaskier’s_ – bedroll. “I can’t deal with this right now. Actually, scratch that, I can’t deal with this _ever_. Sort your own shit out. Wake me up in the morning so I can check these burns for myself.”

Jaskier opens and closes his mouth a few times, but it’s clear that Yennefer is ignoring him, her face still tense, but a touch more relaxed in sleep than he’s ever seen it awake. He stares at her, confused, watching as her breathing slowly evens out and her mouth parts slightly. The confusion only builds when he realises that she’s sleeping here, with _him_ , and that she trusts him enough to do so. It’s a sobering thought.

That in mind, he carefully makes his way to the other side of the fire and onto his own makeshift bed, made out of a single blanket and all of his clothes save the ones he’s wearing. It’s close enough to the fire, and covered by the hut, that he doesn’t freeze – but autumn has almost completely turned into winter and if Yennefer stays, they’re going to have to sort something out. Maybe he can convince her to accompany him to Oxenfurt for a while. She may not be at full power but anyone who looks at her would know better than to get on her bad side. It might be good protection.

On the other hand, Jaskier muses as he pulls the lone blanket over his shoulder and stares into the flames, she may wake up before him and manage to portal herself out of here. That’s a very real possibility.

He sighs, closing his eyes, determined to get a good night of sleep just in case he _does_ have to deal with a cantankerous witch in the morning. He’ll see what happens when he wakes.


	4. Chapter 4

Avoiding human contact is much harder with Ciri around. 

It had taken all of three days before Geralt finally cracked, relenting to her unbridled pleas for a warm bed that despite his concerns he couldn’t ignore. She’s young, and human, and although he’s not even gotten to really know her, he already knows he’d give his life a thousand times over for hers. His own discomfort at being surrounded by other people is a pale afterthought to her health and safety.

The first day she hadn’t spoken much, watching him with wary eyes and smelling of vague fear and weary acceptance, nothing like the sweet honey wine scent of the last human he’d travelled with. He’s still not sure what had gotten her to finally open up a little more and talking to him, though he suspects being caught red-handed while talking to Roach may have helped. He’s been told before that his affection for his horse renders him a little less intimidating.

After two weeks, she’s chattering away significantly more, much livelier than any conversation Geralt would be able to scrounge up. It brings a heavy pang to his chest every time he realises he’s actually more comfortable in the face of pointless noise, but dwelling on the reasons for that is something that he’s not yet willing to do. It’s been a year and a half, and it’s still too soon.

Ciri, for her part, doesn’t seem to notice the turmoil he’s navigating, and by the time a month has passed with them travelling together she’s as loud and energetic as any child her age ought to be. That doesn’t mean she’s _happy_ – not really, Geralt has woken to the sounds of muffled sobs and panicked nightmare-fueled screams too often to be sure of that – but she seems content.

It’s not the honey wine contentment, but something softer, more innocent.

She trusts him now, too. 

The snows have really started to set in when he fully comprehends the fact that she trusts _him_ , of all people. A man, a _mutant_ she’d never met and only knew of from her grandmother’s dying words. It’s not exactly the makings of a great friendship.

But, despite his misgivings, she does trust him. And he trusts her, more or less, and even with his usual stubborn will to repress any and all emotions, he knows that he cares for her. She’s sweet, and innocent, and he’ll protect her as best as he can.

They’re making their way steadily north, he’s intent on getting her to Kaer Morhen as soon as possible, but it’s slow going. At first, his leg is still a hindrance, and even with his mutations and accelerated healing, he can’t keep up a full day’s march and still be able to protect Ciri from the bands of Nilfgaardian soldiers they come across. For her part, Ciri tries to keep up with him in everything, even as he cedes Roach to her to ride, but in the first week she’s exhausted and they’re forced to settle down for a few days so they can both rest. After that, it’s easier to push on, but Ciri is still a child, he has to remind himself, she wears out faster than Jaskier ever did and she’s definitely not a match for his own endurance. Instead, they take more breaks and find warm places to sleep at night.

The soldiers are another issue. Once they cross into Temeria there are fewer of them, yes, but even with the main bulk of the army detained by the Northern Kingdoms, scouts and patrols have made their way into unconquered territory, and spies and sympathisers with them. 

It’s soon abundantly clear that they’re looking for Ciri.

 _Fuck no_ , Geralt thinks, the first time one of the soldiers tries to grab her. The next town they come across has a market, and he wastes no time in finding her new clothes: boy’s things that do much more to conceal her identity, and are better suited to the road besides. She won’t let him cut her hair – and she’s already figured out how to wrap him around her little finger, it would seem – so they compromise. She wears a hat, now, her pale blonde hair stuffed up past the rim.

They’ve just passed Vizima, and are starting to actually make good time in their trip north, when the bard at the tavern they’re staying in decides to strike up one of Jaskier’s songs. 

It’s an old one, thank the gods, not the new one Geralt had heard that brought with it a harsh realisation and dredged up unwanted guilt and emotions. Even so, he would like nothing more than to storm out – grab Roach and his things and just _go_ – but he can’t, not anymore. Not when Ciri’s ears perk up at the sound of her music and her eyes brighten at the taste of the actual hearty stew in her bowl instead of stringy rabbit spitted over a fire.

Geralt grits his teeth, staring down into his own bowl as he eats, the food suddenly tasteless on his tongue as the bard’s music drifts over to them. He’s not as good as Jaskier - though, Geralt’s never found _anyone_ who was, not that he would ever admit it – and the way he butchers one of the transitions would have had Jaskier foaming at the mouth. 

Ciri doesn’t seem to care, absentmindedly eating her stew as she watches the bard. She’s royalty, Geralt remembers all of a sudden, of course she would enjoy music. She would have had all the entertainment she could ever want back in Cintra. 

He swallows another bite of his meal, a bitter taste rising in his mouth. There’s not much he can give her, he knows this, but knowing doesn’t stop him from feeling like he’s failing. Fuck, Jaskier would be much better at this than he is. 

“I love this song,” Ciri says suddenly, pushing away her now-empty bowl on the table. Geralt glances up at her from his own, torn away from his thoughts. “It’s quite good,” the girl continues. “I love the story to it. It doesn’t have the ending you’d expect, but it’s not a sad ending, either.”

“Hmm,” Geralt lets out, mostly to show that he’s heard. She’s already taken to berating him about his lack of multiple-syllabled answers, but at least a hum is a step up from grunts or just plain silence.

Ciri sees his expression and rolls her eyes at him. “What, you don’t like music?”

Geralt shifts, looking away. Once, the answer would have been simple: no, he doesn’t care for music. Doesn’t care about it enough to even form an opinion, unless it’s loud and getting on his nerves. Now, though, it’s harder. He’s not sure how to explain to her that it’s not the song that’s the issue right now, it’s the bard playing it.

“Well, I do,” Ciri says matter-of-factly, ignoring his silence. “I was never very good at it myself, even though Eist once hired a tutor for me. It’s not one of my talents.” She sighs, resting her chin on the heel of her hand as she continues to watch the bard play. “And I do like this song. I used to ask for it at my nameday celebrations. We had the original musician there, though.”

At that, Geralt’s head snaps back up, and he stares at her. She can’t possibly mean… “The original musician?” he manages to rasp out, and she nods, still looking at the bard and not at him.

“Yes, Eist invited him to all my nameday parties,” she answers, unconcerned – oblivious to the emotions starting to bubble up inside of Geralt. “His name was Jaskier. He was fun, I liked him. Grandmother didn’t, though, but Mousesack said that was just because of an incident before I was born. He was nice to me, and played whatever I asked. Once he sang a song twelve times in a row because I wanted to hear it more!” She giggles at the memory, and finally turns to look at him, her grin immediately replaced by a frown. “Geralt…?”

He’s still staring at her, mostly unseeing, now, as a cord of confusion winds its way around his chest, constricting with every word. Why would Jaskier go back to Cintra after what had happened – and, more importantly, why had he never said anything? He _had_ always seemed to disapprove of Geralt’s resolution to stay away, but to visit Cintra every year… he’s not sure what to do with the information.

“What was Jaskier doing in Cintra?” he asks, voice gruff, and it’s a sign of how rattled he is that he lets his thoughts spill out of his mouth like that. 

Ciri frowns harder. “He played at my nameday celebrations,” she repeats, and yeah, alright, she had said that before, but it still doesn’t explain _why_. “I don’t know why he was there beyond that,” Ciri continues, and now she sounds confused, too. “He always joked that he was there to keep an eye on me, but he didn’t really do much else. He let me play his lute once, though, but I already told you I have no musical talent.”

“He was there to keep an eye on you,” Geralt murmurs, only barely listening to the rest of her words. “Every year?”

“Yes,” Ciri responds, nodding. “Why?”

Geralt finally tears his gaze away, eyes dropping to the bowl in front of him that he can already tell has gone cold in his distraction. He’d spent over a year denying that he has any feelings for the infuriating creature that was Jaskier, only to be confronted with the knowledge that the bard truly _loved_ him, and now this – that he’d apparently been watching over Geralt’s Child of Surprise behind his back. It’s a lot to take in, and his own carefully restrained longing that he’s still too scared to put a name on is not helping matters. 

He looks back up at Ciri briefly, noting the curiosity in her eyes. “I knew him,” he says eventually, not sure what else to add. 

Ciri watches him for a moment, lips parsed and keen eyes not leaving his face, and he can see as her features morph just slightly into one of realisation. What she’s seen, he’s not entirely sure, but he can hazard a guess. She doesn’t push, though, just turns to look back at the bard still singing, and Geralt’s grateful. He’s not sure he can deal with voicing another revelation tonight.

* * *

Yennefer heals slowly, though Jaskier is inclined to admit that maybe it’s just his perception that makes it feel slow. The last person who he’d cared for when injured healed much faster than anyone else could.

It’s not until almost three weeks later that they’re able to actually leave the ramshackle hut on the banks of the Ina, travelling during the day in a northern trajectory, an unspoken agreement between them to get as far away from Sodden Hill as possible. Yennefer still hasn’t told him precisely what happened, and he hasn’t asked, but from what she says he’s able to get the gist. He’s doubly glad he wasn’t there.

There’s a sort of comfort in not being alone, even if it’s with Yennefer, of all people. It’s not just the comfort of having a magically roomy and luxurious tent to sleep in at night (although that’s a commodity he could certainly get used to), but the other things as well. Conversation, someone to watch his back, company.

It’s probably just misplaced familiarity, he tells himself. He’d gotten so used to travelling with someone that having Yennefer here, with him, is just some sort of strange feeling that leads to reminiscence. He doesn’t actually _like_ the witch, no, but travelling together is familiar, logical. Safe. And if, late at night when Yennefer is asleep on the other side of her magical tent, Jaskier manages to actually admit that yes, okay, fine – maybe he _does_ like her, after all – then that’s no one’s business but his. Besides, it’s not as if there’s anyone else around to talk to.

“How do you feel about Vizima?” he asks one morning, when they’re both suitably dressed and ready for the day and the tent has been packed away, the path that they’re close to one that Jaskier recognises.

Yennefer arches an eyebrow at him. “Mostly ambivalent,” she says, watching him carefully. “Why do you want to know?”

“No reason,” he answers easily, feeling her doubtful gaze as he sets off along the road, a little more confident now that he has a set destination in mind instead of simply heading north. He’s never been a brilliant tracker, nor able to easily find his way without a decent map of instructions, but he’s travelled in Temeria enough that he knows this road, at least. 

Two days later, they enter Vizima. The city is quieter than usual, the absence of soldiers evident in the streets, but the normal sounds of city life still ring out throughout the alleys and marketplaces.

It seems safe enough, and although Jaskier can’t fully relax, there’s something about being in a city with its colourful inhabitants and numerous opportunities that fills him to the brim with energy and excitement. Yennefer, trailing behind him, doesn’t appear to have the same reaction, but at least she’s trailing after him without an excessive amount of complaining.

“Did we really have to come to the market first?” Yennefer muses, and although he knows it’s most likely a rhetorical question, Jaskier can’t help but shoot her a withering look as he flits in between the stalls.

“Of course,” he insists, running his fingers over a swathe of velvety cloth. “And don’t lie to yourself, darling. You know you’ve been longing for civilisation as much as I have, if only because you can torment someone other than me for a change.”

Yennefer chuckles darkly. “You’re plenty amusing,” she taunts, earning herself another glare. “But fine. I was getting bored of being stuck with just your endless caterwauling.”

Jaskier decides to ignore her, instead choosing to continue his amble through the market, eyes catching on trinkets and baubles that he’d quite like to have, if only he had the coin. Vizima is a big city, at least, and he reckons he could fetch quite a decent fare performing at some of the taverns. In these dark times people will be in need of entertainment, and the pockets here will be deeper than in the country villages threatened more closely by Nilfgaard.

Somewhere behind him he hears Yennefer say something to one of the stallholders and he smirks to himself, smug with the knowledge that he was right. They’re both of them creatures of luxury, and staying here for a little while will do them both a world of good. Perhaps the witch can trick another man into giving up his home for them to use.

Turning, he glances at Yennefer before continuing to appraise the market, the stalls fewer than the excessive number he’d seen last time, but there is a war on. Even still, it’s large and bustling with people, and he spots a couple hopeful-looking minstrels and a number of children before his eyes land on a tall man by the furrier’s stall. Jaskier does a double take, breath hitching as he notices first the wide berth the other market-goers are giving the man, then the dark hair, badly scarred face, and _oh fuck_ , slitted amber eyes.

Well. Maybe Vizima _wasn’t_ such a good idea.

He glances down, and sure enough, there’s a silver medallion resting against the man’s chest. Jaskier isn’t close enough to see what symbol is on it, but when he looks back up at the man’s face and sees the faint trace of recognition there, he’s able to guess. The man’s eyes trail to the lute still strung over his shoulder, widening, before turning away from the furrier’s stall fully and taking a step forward.

Jaskier can’t breathe. He’s not sure what the Witcher wants with him, but Jaskier knows that it can’t be good. There’s no way Geralt has said anything _good_ about him to his brothers, he’s made it clear Jaskier is worse than the dirt below his feet, so there’s no telling what this Witcher will do to him. Gut him, maybe, for apparently making his brother’s life a living hell?

Someone steps in between the Witcher and Jaskier, breaking the spell, and although he can tell that the Witcher is still heading straight for him, Jaskier takes the momentary distraction for what it is, darting forward to grab Yennefer’s arm and drag him with her, winding through the stalls of the market and back towards the gate.

A shout rings out from behind him and he curses, ignoring Yennefer’s demands for an explanation and continuing down the main street until they’re close enough to the walls to see the gates open wide, admitting travellers in and out.

There’s a cart laden with aromatic herbs trundling towards the city gates, and Jaskier rushes to the driver’s side, Yennefer trailing behind him with no little amount of confusion. “Do you have room for two passengers?” he asks, a little out of breath. “We can pay!”

The driver glances down at him, then towards Yennefer, eyebrows raising below the rim of his hat. “Trying to avoid Nilfgaard, are ye?” he drawls, accent thick. 

Jaskier nods hastily. “Yes, yes we are,” he says, because he supposes it’s partially true, at least. It’s not the immediate danger, right now, but getting as far away from Nilfgaard as possible doesn’t sound like that bad of an idea. Witchers have a strong sense of smell, he knows this, and the one at the market would have no trouble tracking him, but the aromatic herbs in the cart might just be enough to throw him off the scent. He grabs his coin purse and lets a handful drop into his palm, holding it up hopefully. “Can you take us north?”

“Can’t take ye all the way to the border,” the driver tells him, reaching out to take the coins. “But I can get ye most of the way. Hop on.” He gestures towards the back of the wagon and Jaskier gives him his most grateful smile, grabbing Yennefer’s hand and pulling her onto the wooden slats where there’s space. The wagon starts moving again, and soon enough they’re out of the city.

Yennefer wrenches her hand out of Jaskier’s grasp once they’re seated fully, eyes tracking the edge of the city walls and regarding their driver with distaste. “Jaskier, what the fuck is going on?” she hisses, purple eyes practically burning a hole in his face.

“We’re getting out of here,” Jaskier whispers back, settling in more comfortably against the side of the cart and placing his lute down gently before leaning back. A sharp flick to his forehead makes him open his eyes at glare at the witch across from him. “Hey!”

“Stop fooling around,” Yennefer snaps, crossing her arms. “I have no objection to avoiding Nilfgaard, but I would have noticed if there were any spies or soldiers or whatever around. So why the fuck did you decide to drag us out of there?” She glares at him, unamused. “And don’t tell me you did see something, because I know for a fact you didn’t, and there’s no way you can lie to me.”

“I did see something,” Jaskier protests, but it only earns him another flick. “ _Ow_! Okay, fine, maybe I didn’t see anything outright threatening,” he concedes, glaring back. “I saw something else that I wanted to avoid, and now we’re killing two birds with one stone. Happy?”

Yennefer scoffs. “Not remotely. Explain, _now_.” She flicks him again.

“ _Stop_ that! Fine, you vile witch,” he huffs, looking away when she only arches a brow. “ _Fine_. I saw a Witcher, and he apparently recognised me, and I wanted to get the fuck out of there before he did anything.”

“Geralt?” Yennefer asks immediately, a frown appearing on her lips as she looks back towards the steadily receding walls of Vizima like she has half a mind to storm back.

“Not Geralt,” Jaskier says, looking out over the fields the wagon rolls through, watching as his breath comes out in a mist that disperses over the wooden edge. “But I didn’t want to stick around to find out who. Who knows what Geralt’s told them about me, and I’d really prefer not to get punched in the stomach, _again_.”

Yennefer glances back at him, eyebrow still raised. “Geralt punched you in the stomach,” she repeats, and it sounds as though she doesn’t believe it. “That’s not very like him.”

“Have you _met_ him?” Jaskier laughs incredulously. “This is the man who caused my neck to swell with a fucking tumour just because he wanted some peace – I did catch on to that little fact, thank you very much – and who’d just as soon leave me to die at the side of the road as speak to me.”

“That’s not true,” Yennefer says, and she sounds irritated, but still incredulous. “He punched you.”

“In the stomach,” Jaskier repeats, scowling at the memory. It hadn’t dissuaded him then, young and naïve as he was, but he can’t help thinking that maybe he should have let it. It would have spared him a lot of pain in the future. “My stomach, and by extant my entire torso, is an invaluable part to any bard, I’ll have you know,” he continues petulantly, rubbing at his abdomen where he fancies he can still feel the phantom ache of the blow, even more than two decades later. “Apparently I was too annoying for him to deal with.”

“You _are_ very annoying,” Yennefer agrees, and dodges the weak swat Jaskier aims at her shin. “But still. I kind of thought it was a love-at-first-sight kind of thing. Didn’t think he’d have kept you around otherwise.”

Jaskier gasps in outrage, very deliberately ignoring the love portion of that statement. “I’m not a nuisance, I’m a –”

“A delight, yes, you’ve told me before,” Yennefer interrupts, rolling her eyes. “You’re not, just so you’re aware. But anyways, it still doesn’t seem like Geralt. He’d do anything to keep you safe – told me as much when he brought you to me.”

Mouth falling open, Jaskier stares. “He _what_?” he splutters.

“Said he’d do anything for you to be healed,” Yennefer says calmly, examining her nails and completely ignoring the enormous levels of confusion Jaskier is having to deal with at the revelation. He knew – well, had _thought_ that Geralt cared for him, and no matter what harsh words were spoken there’s a part of him that still believes it – but hearing it from Yennefer is something else entirely.

“I… did not know that,” he says dumbly, staring vacantly at the case of his lute, not entirely sure what to do with the information. It’s proof that Geralt definitely did care for him, but the rest of the circumstances of that day don’t really add up with that fact. If Geralt really had cared, Jaskier wouldn’t have seen him fucking Yennefer after she tried to kill him – or cut his balls off, or whatever.

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “I gathered.” There’s a beat of silence, the only sounds the rumbling of the cart’s wheels and the driver’s pitchy humming. Eventually, she sighs, wrapping her hand around Jaskier’s ankle and forcing him to look up at her. “Look, I’ve got no idea what happened between you two,” she says, and he’s pinned under her gaze. “But I know that Geralt is an ass, and he will always be an ass, and no matter how much I still hate you – because I _do_ – you probably didn’t deserve whatever he said or did.”

Jaskier snorts. “You can say that again.”

“But I also know that you both are idiots who can’t see what’s right in front of them,” Yennefer continues, and Jaskier regrets thinking that maybe she’s on his side. “I don’t want to get involved because I’m pissed at both of you, but as much as I hate to admit it, you helped me, and I owe you one. So we can run from any Witchers we see and I won’t fight you on that.”

Her face is as hard as ever when Jaskier looks at her, but there’s something in her eyes that he thinks might just be sympathy, if indeed she’s capable of feeling such a thing. Maybe they’re more alike than he originally thought. “Thank you,” he says, and isn’t surprised to find that he means it. “The same goes for you. I mean, I don’t entirely know what Geralt did to you, and even though I don’t want to admit it because I hate you too, you probably didn’t deserve it either. _Probably_.” He narrows his eyes at Yennefer. “Possibly.”

The witch grins at him, sharp and bright. “Glad to know we still hate each other.”

Jaskier sighs, wiggling to get more comfortable against the side of the cart and closing his eyes. “Some things never change, my dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voila, the next chapter! I'm sorry that these are a bit slower than my other fics have been, but there's been some stuff going on that I really have to focus on and they're pretty draining. At any rate, I do have the fic all planned out, and the plots ready to go for writing each chapter, so you can definitely expect an update every three or four days at least!
> 
> Thank you for understanding! After this fic, I don't have any new ideas, but if anyone has prompts or ideas they'd like to share, please let me know!


	5. Chapter 5

Ciri manages to parse out almost everything about Jaskier within the next week.

He’d be impressed, really, if it weren’t for the fact that the memories are still too painful for him to want to delve deeper into. They’re in the north of Temeria now, right on the border, and every day Ciri worms out as many details as she can. Geralt tells her, thinking in vain that maybe talking will ease the pain, so he tells her about their travels together, the elves and the Djinn and even the party in Cintra where he had accidentally bound her to him.

He doesn’t tell her about the mountain, though.

Those memories are too much even for him to deal with, ones that he’s kept locked away and only taken out to examine once or twice, only to immediately be faced with the realisation that he’s too much of a coward to do so. It’s not a word that’s been used to describe him – _ever_ – but he finds that it’s one that fits him the most in this instance. It’s ironic, how he’s always so prepared to go into battle with a monster, but runs from his own feelings.

It’s taken a while for him even to admit that he _has_ feelings. He’s known he does all his life, has always understood that the Trials merely diminished them, made it easier to keep them controlled – but hadn’t taken them away. In some cases, he thinks they only made them stronger.

But there’s still a difference between knowing he has feelings, and actually _admitting_ it. Admitting to it means that they can hurt him, can slow him down, can impair his judgement like they did with Renfri, with Yennefer. With Jaskier. Now, especially, he can’t afford to be compromised. Renfri and Yennefer could always have held their own, could have protected themselves without his help, and even Jaskier wasn’t as useless as the multitude of hostile bar patrons and villagers had muttered during their travels.

Ciri, though, needs his protection, and it’s easier to ignore any feelings for anyone else in favour of ensuring that she’s safe.

He looks up at her now, where she’s riding on Roach and still not incredibly taller than him. She’s found out about Jaskier, knows enough to understand that he’s made mistakes, and she still trusts him, stays with him. Even cares for him, maybe, and although he knows he’s a poor replacement for any type of familial bond or a father figure, there’s something that tugs in his chest every time she smiles at him, every time she nods off against his shoulder, head resting lower than Jaskier’s would when he did the same. 

Roach’s shoe clinks against a rock and Geralt looks down, seeing the pebble-strewn path underfoot, where the frost hasn’t quite melted from the morning. It’s late in the afternoon, practically evening, but his nose tells him there’s a village only a few miles ahead, and although the snow hasn’t fully stuck during the nights, the air is getting colder and Ciri will do well with a warm place to rest. He will, too, even if he’s loathed to prioritise his own needs over hers. They’ll reach the village within the hour and both have some time to rest before they continue further into Kaedwen and on towards Kaer Morhen.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the White Wolf himself.”

Geralt reaches immediately for his sword, spinning around and freezing as soon as the heady scent of lilac and gooseberries hits his noise, eyes widening at the sight of Yennefer standing a few feet away, regal and resplendent as ever in a lacy black gown. On Roach, he sees Ciri staring, shaking slightly although he can tell she’s valiantly trying to conceal her fear. He can’t blame her, really, the only people who have recognised them so far have been soldiers hellbent on capturing her.

“Yennefer,” he greets coolly, a little unsure how best to navigate the situation. He does slide his sword back into its sheath, and feels Ciri relax beside him at the word and the motion. Not an enemy, she’s realised, though with the look in the mage’s eyes Geralt’s not so sure.

“Geralt.” Yennefer’s gaze flickers to Ciri, and her mouth thins into a straight line. “Already have a new travelling companion, I see. Didn’t take you long after discarding the last one.”

The words sting, as they no doubt were meant to, and it’s all Geralt can do not to flinch. Yennefer has always been good at worming her way inside of him and picking him apart, finding flaws and faults that she can use when they fight, and it seems that hasn’t changed. In all honesty, he’s not completely innocent on that front either, he knows his way to her deep-seated insecurities too. It’s part of the reason why they had been so bad for each other, why there was no way their story could have ended in anything but wreckage and ruin. It’s taken him far too long to realise that. 

“This is Ciri,” he says, instead of giving over to the urge of snapping something back that’s equally biting. Old habits die hard, but he’s trying. “She’s my Child of Surprise.”

Yennefer’s eyes widen imperceptibly, and there’s a slight softness to them as she watches Geralt help Ciri off of Roach’s back to stand beside him. Geralt glances at the girl, carefully checking for any telltale signs of anxiety, but for her part Ciri’s expression is open and curious, unlike the shuttered one she’s held whenever they come across anyone else.

“Princess Cirilla,” Yennefer greets, and Geralt whips his head back to look at her. He knows he told Yennefer that she existed, but not _who_ she was. Yennefer must see his startled look because she rolls her eyes. “Of course I know who she is,” she says in exasperation. “Really, Geralt. I’m not an idiot, I can sense the Elder blood in her veins.” She looks back down. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Geralt decides that he doesn’t really want to unravel _that_ particular statement just yet, instead folding his arms over his chest and taking a step forward. “What are you doing here, Yen?” he demands, and if it weren’t for the fact that he still does feel guilty about the Djinn wish, and that he knows Ciri is going to need help from someone other than him, he’d have long pressed Roach onwards.

“I was simply gathering herbs for a spell,” Yennefer responds, a challenge in her voice as she reaches to collect a bag Geralt hadn’t even noticed was there. “I certainly wasn’t intending on running into you.” 

He stares back at her, sees her defiant eyes, but also the dark spots she’s tried to conceal beneath them, sees the way she trembles ever so slightly at maintaining her proud stance. She’s weary, he realises, and the faint difference in skin tone where her hands meet her wrists reminds him that she was at Sodden, that she must have been the one who set the place ablaze. It makes sense, now that he thinks about it. He doesn’t know anyone else who could have done the same.

Yennefer is still watching him, almost warily, and Geralt sighs. He’s well aware that he made her life harder, and if swallowing his pride and apologising means she’ll help them, he’ll do it. “I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s still hard to get out, teeth gritted. Yennefer raises an eyebrow and he has to force himself not to look away. “I’m sorry, alright? _Fuck_. I know I’m an idiot. For fuck’s sake.”

“That sounded like it was physically painful,” Yennefer drawls, but her eyes have softened even more, now, and Geralt breathes just a bit easier. “But whatever. I’m still pissed at you, just so you’re aware.”

Geralt’s lips quirk up at the corners. “I know.”

“Good.” Yennefer nods decisively, hoisting her bag up onto her shoulder and glancing back down at Ciri, who’s been watching their whole interaction with an air of perplexed interest. “I assume you’re heading for Kaer Morhen?” She nods again before Geralt can answer. “It’s the only place that’s really safe for her, for now. Shouldn’t be too much longer for you to get there.”

“You could come with us,” Geralt offers, quickly checking to gauge Ciri’s reaction. She still hasn’t spoken a word, but there’s an aura of tentative excitement around her. “You’ll be safe there, too. And Ciri needs someone other than me to train her.”

A crease appears on Yennefer’s brow, and Geralt waits. He’s put himself out there, been more vulnerable in this conversation than he’s been in a long time. He remembers what he said to Yennefer on that mountain, remembers the realisation that he says more when she’s around than he does in the months before. He remembers realising how unfair that must have been, not only for him, but for Jaskier, who spent _years_ talking to him without any of the same attention returned. It’s clear now, though, that what he had with Yennefer is something he doesn’t crave anymore, it’s not something he needs to survive. Maybe, now that they’ve found each other again, they can settle into something that’s less intense. Not friends, not yet, but allies, perhaps.

“An apology doesn’t fix everything, Geralt,” Yennefer says, and he can feel his heart sinking. He’s not so far gone that he’ll resort to begging, not yet, but there must be some sort of pleading in his expression because Yennefer sighs, closing her eyes and reaching to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Okay, _fine_ , I’ll think about it. But it’s not just my choice. My answer will depend on my travelling companion and what he wants to do.”

Geralt frowns. Travelling companion? The only time he’d seen Yennefer travel with someone had been with Sir Eyck for the dragon hunt, and even then, she hadn’t cared for his opinions. “Who…?” he starts to ask, trailing off at the withering look she sends his way. A feeling of dread starts to build inside him.

“I’m not the only one you owe an apology to, Geralt,” Yennefer tells him, voice as hard as steel, and just like that the ground drops out from under his feet. 

Abruptly, the pieces slide into place, and even though it’s almost unfathomable, there’s no other real possibility. Who else would have told Yennefer about Ciri, would bond with her over Geralt’s idiocy? He _really_ doesn’t want to think about it, but the feeling of dread swells into larger proportions and he can feel that he’s right.

_Jaskier_.

* * *

They make it out of Temeria, in the end, all the way to a village in Kaedwen that’s sitting practically on the border, which is where Jaskier finally decides they can stop running. Yennefer, true to her word, hadn’t complained about their mad dash north, but he can tell that she had slowly begun to lose what little patience with him she possessed. 

It’s highly unlikely that the mystery Witcher has followed them all this way. Jaskier doesn’t doubt that if he wanted to find them, he could, and probably isn’t too far behind – but he also doubts the likelihood of following him just to express his displeasure over Jaskier’s apparent negative effect on Geralt. It’s not exactly the type of thing he’d think a Witcher would do, but then again, if past experiences have taught him anything, maybe he doesn’t know all that he thought he had about Witchers.

Still, he doubts the Witcher is following them.

He’s well aware that the Witcher would have easily caught up to them in the last village, when they’d said goodbye to the traveller with the blessed aromatic herbs that Jaskier had used to hide their scent as they left Vizima – and he’s quite proud of that one, actually, even though Yennefer had rolled her eyes at him.

The tavern he’s in is fairly quiet, having finished up his set during the lunchtime hour and received enough coin to pay for their stay that evening, as well as hot meals and drinks for the both of them. He knows by now that Yennefer has her own stash of coin, one that he’s stolen a little from – his own petty form of revenge – but he also doesn’t want to feel indebted to her. She owes him, yes, she’s said as much, but he’s not entirely sure he wants a favour from her. She has a tendency to alter what he’s asking for _just_ enough that it suits her own means more than his ones.

They have come to a full truce, though, no matter how begrudging it is. He still insists he hates the witch, on principle, and she does the same, but there’s an unspoken agreement that means that each of them knows they don’t truly mean it, not anymore. They’re still catty and argumentative and they have a habit of insulting each other and not speaking for hours on end, but Jaskier is confident that they’ve forged a lasting – if reluctant – friendship. 

His last friendship – if it could be called that, that is – hadn’t ended on good terms, and he’s trying not to think of the fact that there’s a very high possibility of this one being the same. He doesn’t want it to, despite his carefree attitude and extroverted manner he’s well aware that he’s a needy person, and he craves companionship. It’s hardly his fault that the people he tends to stick around are far more unpredictable than he is.

Well, alright, maybe he could stop caring for powerful and quasi-immortal beings. That might help in his efforts to make real friendships. He could even be a normal human.

He bites back a laugh at the thought. Normalcy has never appealed to him, and honestly, it shouldn’t have come as a shock that he found himself falling in love with an unobtainable Witcher and travelling companion to one of the scariest sorceresses alive. His life was never going to be _normal_.

The witch in question has been gone the whole day, departing after a rather luxurious lie-in that they both very much needed. The night before, Jaskier had played and sang his heart out for the patrons, and Yennefer had sat in the corner and glowered in an eerily similar way to Geralt. The only real difference, other than the notable appearance, was the goblet of wine in her hands instead of whatever shit-swill the tavern had on tap.

“I’m leaving,” she had announced that morning, and Jaskier was too slow to stop the look of horror that crossed his face as he snapped his eyes up to meet hers. Yennefer scoffed. “Not like that,” she had said, waving a hand and only slightly assuaging his fears. “I need to go collect some herbs. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m not at full strength yet, so I don’t fancy our chances if either of us get hurt. I need some herbs and other things to be able to cast a simple protection spell.”

Jaskier’s rapidly pounding heart had settled a little at that, strangely relieved that the witch wasn’t just going to abandon him. “It’s been just over a month,” he had reminded her, intent on not letting on to his concerns any more than the first embarrassing slip. “Healing takes time, and you, my dear, were rather exceptionally worn out.”

Yennefer had rolled her eyes at him, a motion that Jaskier had begun to realise was sort of _their thing_. Even if it wasn’t because of him, she’d still direct it at him for him to see. He revels in the idea that they have a _thing_ to share.

“Yes, _mother_ ,” she had snapped back. “And before you say it – I’ll be careful. I may not be a full capacity just yet, but I’m still more than a match for just about anything. Besides, I need to get out of here before you start with that racket you call _singing_.”

She had swept out of the tavern before he could respond, and when the lunch hour came, he played _Her Sweet Kiss_ louder and more enthusiastically than any other composition, even giving it an encore. Another small, petty victory, but one he’s going to savour with all the others.

It’s evening now, but still early enough that he’s not worried yet. He knows what Yennefer had said is true, she’s certainly the most powerful person he can think of, and she’s healed enough that no one could truly test her without being fried to a crisp themselves. She’ll be alright, and even though he dares to believe that she has grown fond of him over this past month, it is probably good for them both to get a little bit of separation. They’re liable to drive each other insane, he knows this, and besides, Yennefer is not one to be held down. It will be good for her to go out and do something on her own.

He’s jostled out of his thoughts by the sound of the tavern door opening, a blast of cold air making him shiver as he eyes the newcomers. There are six of them, in total, and his breath catches when he sees the black of their armour and the gold of their insignia.

Nilfgaard. 

Evidently, they’d made it north after all, despite a certain sorceress’ best efforts. They can’t have breached Temeria with their full army, they’d have heard if that had happened, but patrols and scouting parties likely would have had no issue getting over the border. He assumes that’s what this is, but – as he’s watching them sit at a table not too far away and call out for food and drinks – that doesn’t mean they’re any less armed.

He listens as they talk, watching them carefully to see if there’s any indication of them coming here for anything other than a roof and a meal. There’s no reason for them to recognise him, he’s not worried about that, but the same can’t be said for Yennefer. He’s sure she’s not too high on their list of favourite people right about now. Luckily, they seem to only really be complaining about their posting, the cold apparently too much for them to handle, and he’s almost about to stop listening when a sentence catches his attention.

“We wouldn’t be up here if it weren’t for that fucking Witcher,” one of them grumbles, scowling into his tankard of ale as soon as it’s set down in front of him. “If they’d gotten him in Cintra we wouldn’t be freezing our balls off right now.”

“At least he’s probably freezing his off too,” another soldier says, tearing off a chunk of bread but sounding no less bitter.

“Wouldn’t count on it,” another one pipes up. “Those mutations. Who knows what all they messed up?”

The first one sneers. “Fucking mutants.”

Jaskier sits, still as a statue. There’s no way they can mean Geralt, he may be an idiot, but he’s not dumb enough to piss off Nilfgaard. Okay, _maybe_ he is, but not like this. They wouldn’t have their army out looking for him this way, that’s a lot even for him.

“How will we know him, anyhow?” one of the other soldiers asks, and this one sounds a lot younger. “There’s more than one Witcher, and don’t they all look the same?”

“Nah,” the first soldier says, shaking his head and snarling. “This one’s special. He’s got white hair. Can’t miss him.”

Well, _fuck_.

He’s still mad at Geralt, and hurt beyond belief, but saying that just put more anger into him than he’s had in a while. There’s no way he can take out a company of soldiers on his own – he’s handy with a foil, and he can hold his own in a bar fight, but that – not a chance. What he can do is quietly head out, Yennefer will be on her way back by now, and together they can figure out what to do. Neither of them particularly want to see Geralt again (although Jaskier is well aware he’s just in denial), but a threat like this can’t just be ignored. Geralt will need to be warned that Nilfgaard is after him.

Isn’t it just like him, Jaskier thinks, as he slowly sets his tankard down and rises as unassumingly as possible to head towards the door. Doesn’t meddle with the affairs of man his arse. He just wonders what it is Geralt has done to find himself in this predicament this time. Refused to fight for them? Perhaps killed a mage in their employ?

Whatever it is, it had better be pretty fucking good for Jaskier to stick his neck out like this, for him to even be considering finding Geralt instead of the other way around. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t go looking.

He’s only about ten steps from the doorway, the table of soldiers carefully bypassed, when a shout rings out from one of the other tables, a small collection of farmers in for an evening meal after a hard day’s work. “Hey, bard!” one of them calls, and Jaskier freezes, lute case slipping in his grasp. “Play us a song, won’t ye? That one about the Witcher o’ yours!”

The tavern has fallen completely silent, now, the table of soldiers halting in their conversation at the sound of the farmer’s voice. The quiet stretches on for almost half a minute, tense and all-encompassing, before there’s the sound of wooden benches being hastily shoved back from tables, the sharp sound of blades being drawn.

“Get him!” comes a shout, and Jaskier doesn’t wait a second more, his instrument falling from his hand as he scrambles towards the door, trying to make his way out into the open so he can either hide or run to find Yen. His fingers just graze the knob when hands clutch at him, forcing a yell out of his throat as he’s pulled back. He fights as best as he can, kicking and punching and trying to claw his way out, eyes darting wildly around the room as he struggles to no avail. There’s a rag being forced into his mouth and rope around his arms and the last thing he sees is his precious lute kicked to the side of the room.

_Geralt_ , he thinks, the word following him down into the dark as pain bursts across his temple and the floor rises up to meet him, legs slumping and refusing to take his weight as his eyes roll back in his head, chased by the encroaching darkness. _Geralt_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a while, everyone! I had an idea and just had to write it down, so I kind of forgot about this until today, but here it is! The next chapter should be up by the end of the week! I hope you enjoy it!


	6. Chapter 6

“Why are you travelling with Jaskier?” Geralt asks, once he’s plucked up the courage to do so. It’s strange, again, that he can faces monsters and mages and armies and all sorts of horrors others could hardly imagine, but the moment he’s faced with his feelings everything comes to a screeching halt. 

Yennefer sighs from up ahead, leading them towards the village that they can see less than a mile away. “I didn’t search him out, if that’s what you’re wondering,” she says, glancing back with the same scathing look she’d been wearing when they had crossed paths earlier. There’s a cloud of mist as she exhales, barely noticeable in the darkened landscape, and Geralt watches it so he doesn’t have to look at Yennefer’s face. “After Sodden, I portalled to where he was staying,” she continues. “He decided to help me.” She looks over her shoulder again. “He’s too good for you, you know.”

Geralt’s mouth flattens into a thin line, but he can’t bring himself to deny it. The ever-present tug in his chest grows stronger and he looks down at his feet as they trudge onwards, the already-overwhelming feelings of guilt and insufficiency washing over him. Jaskier may be vindictive, with a vicious nasty streak, but he knows that the bard would always be too far out of his reach, too good for someone like him. It’s the same thoughts he has about Ciri, knowing he’s not what she truly needs.

There’s another sigh, and Yennefer must see something in his expression, because she stops and turns around fully, the shadows and flickering lights of the town rising up behind her. “You’re not a bad person, Geralt,” she tells him firmly, though there’s a twist to her mouth that suggests that she’s not used to doling out comfort. “And you’re not unworthy. I just mean to say that you can be a pig-headed idiot at times.”

At that, Geralt brings himself to look up, a ripple of amusement and some relief washing over him. “I know.”

Yennefer nods sharply, spinning on her heel to continue onwards. Geralt glances up, to see Ciri watching Yennefer with an awed expression, and the feeling of relief increases. He knows there’s a hard conversation lying ahead, one that has to be had, but he’s got Ciri, and Yennefer, and hopefully he’ll soon have Jaskier, too.

“Did you study at the school at Aretuza?” Ciri asks after a few seconds of silence, and Geralt’s mouth quirks up involuntarily at the startled expression on Yennefer’s face as she looks back. 

“I did,” Yennefer responds, and although she’s already turned back to face ahead, Geralt knows he’s not imagining the slight softness to her voice.

Ciri hums, a habit she’s definitely picked up from him in the past month. He’s not sure how to feel about it, though he thinks that the strange warmth in his chest every time he hears it might be akin to pride. “Mousesack said the Brotherhood was a group of power-hungry charlatans,” she says.

“Ciri!” Geralt snaps his gaze up to look at her. He doesn’t disagree, but surely, royalty would be bred with more manners than to blurt out insults. Then again, she _was_ raised by the Lioness.

Luckily, Yennefer only snorts, looking over her shoulder with a grin. “That they are,” she agrees readily, teeth flashing in the dark of dusk, the edge of town practically in front of them. “The Brotherhood is not an organisation you need to concern yourself with right now, Cirilla. They’re corrupt, and vile, and definitely to be avoided.” She glances back again. “Who’s Mousesack?”

“He was the druid at court,” Ciri explains, fiddling with the horn of the saddle. “He helped raised me and gave me my lessons.” She pauses. “I think he’s dead.”

A tense silence follows her words. Yennefer looks at Geralt, and he shakes his head as minutely as possible, silently urging her to change the subject. There’s a surge of guilt that had risen in him at the name, with it the memories of someone who could theoretically be called his friend resurfacing – although he’s proven how little he appears to respect friendship from anyone. He’s reminded of when he’d managed to coax the story out of Ciri, how she’d asked if there was a chance Mousesack could still be alive, how he couldn’t bring himself to answer. He’d tried to be as comforting as possible, letting her curl up under his arm as she cried silent tears, the salty scent assaulting his nose, but it had never been his forte. There’s a lot he still has to learn, evidently, and hopefully Jaskier will be willing to help him. 

“Well,” Yennefer starts, her voice light as it never is as they cross the road into the village. “I’ll be grateful for a warm meal after the day I’ve had. I’m sure we can scrounge up enough coin to feed the two of you as well.”

“Thank you,” Geralt says, and finds that he means it. He’s not too proud to turn down charity, and, well, if all goes to plan and he manages to apologise to Jaskier, the likelihood is that they’ll all be sharing earnings for a little while. That is, if Jaskier consents to travel with them. It’s a thought that he doesn’t want to linger on, not yet, so he taps Ciri’s foot as Yennefer leads them towards a sizable building that he assumes is the inn. “Ciri.”

“Thank you!” she parrots dutifully, her words a lot more enthusiastic than his had been.

Yennefer laughs, actually _laughs_ , and Geralt is busy wondering at that feat in and of itself when the noise abruptly cuts off and Yennefer freezes, only about twenty paces from the door of the inn. Geralt notices what had stopped her barely a second later, his own distraction hindering his senses momentarily. 

There’s a figure by the door, tall and broad-shouldered and watching them carefully, and it takes half a second more before Geralt recognises who it is, backlit as he is by the inn’s lighting. “Eskel,” he says, grin tugging at his lips as he steps forward in front of Yennefer, only to halt at his brother’s expression. He frowns. “What is it?”

“Nilfgaardian soldiers,” Eskel responds, striding forwards to join their little group. “They left about an hour ago. I’ve checked for any others in the area, but I don’t think they’ll be back tonight.” There’s something in his voice that makes Geralt wary, but before he can press further, Yennefer side-steps him, arms crossed over her chest.

“Another Witcher,” she says, and Geralt is overly familiar with that prodding tone. “You were in Vizima.”

Eskel nods, taking her in. “I was,” he confirms. “Nice trick with the herbs, by the way. Threw me off the scent for quite a while.”

“It was Jaskier’s idea, actually,” she informs him, flicking her hair over her shoulder. “We were trying to avoid you. I’m not sure he’ll be pleased you managed to find us after all.”

Geralt’s confusion is steadily mounting, and he can feel Ciri’s curiosity practically radiating off of her. Yennefer and Eskel continue to eye each other for another minute, sizing the other up, before finally Eskel raises his head to look back at Geralt. Immediately, his expression twists, and he runs a hand over his face. 

“The soldiers are gone,” he says again, and his tone is too even, almost cautious, making Geralt frown harder. There’s something wrong here. “They had left just as I arrived. Got a mage to portal them out.” He looks Geralt in the eye, and there’s a hint of an apology in his amber eyes. “I’m sorry, Geralt. I got here too late.” 

His breath leaves him in one shaky exhale as the implication lands, and before he knows what he’s doing, he’s pushing past Eskel and striding into the inn, looking around at the empty room and overturned benches and table. Panic is rising in his throat and he forces himself to breathe in, only to immediately wish that he hadn’t, when he smells it – there – the distinct scent of blood. _Jaskier’s_ blood. 

Yennefer has followed him inside but he’s barely aware of her presence as he kneels to the ground, fingers trailing an inch above from where the small splatter of bright red blood is pooled on the floorboards. It’s not a lot, which is reassuring, but there’s a high chance that since he’s likely to be alive, they’ll have relocated him for other purposes. His hands clench into fists as he realises precisely what those purposes are.

The amount of times he’d berated the bard for singing about him, for putting himself in danger by being in Geralt’s company, and now his worst fears have been realised. If anyone wanted to find Geralt, logically they’d go through Jaskier. In this case, it might even be literal.

“Oh, gods,” Yennefer says from beside him, her eyes stuck on the blood on the floor even as Geralt rises to his feet, gaze sweeping about the room. “Fuck. That idiot. I shouldn’t have left him.”

Geralt ignores her as his eyes land on the corner closest to the door, the smell of oil and resin drawing him closer, until his feet stop in front of a familiar shape. His heart, already frozen in his chest, seems to drop by another few degrees as he reaches for the travel-worn leather of Jaskier’s lute case. The weight of it tells him the instrument is still safely inside, and if he weren’t already abundantly sure of what had happened here, this confirms it. There is no way Jaskier would ever leave his precious lute behind unless he was forced to.

“The innkeeper told me they knocked him out and portalled away,” Eskel says from the doorway, his voice low and serious, and it’s a testament to how shaken Geralt is that he hadn’t even noticed him and Ciri come in. “I arrived just too late. When I saw him in Vizima I was going to warn him, I’d heard the patrols talking. Said they’d take any information on a Witcher with white hair, and that the bard would be an easy target.” He glances down at Ciri. “I suppose they’re looking for you.”

Ciri’s eyes are wide and frightened as she nods, and Geralt’s heart seizes even more. It’s ironic, how he’d blamed Jaskier for all his problems on that mountain, blamed him for Ciri – yet _he’s_ the one constantly dragging _them_ into trouble. Without him, neither Jaskier nor Ciri would be in danger right now.

“We have to get Ciri to safety,” Yennefer says decisively, and it’s with a start that Geralt realises she’s looking at him, that he hasn’t said anything this whole time. Her expression is shuttered, but he knows her well enough to see the barely-concealed rage below the surface. “Geralt. We need to get her out of here.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes, the name slipping out without his approval. He can’t understand why Yennefer is so calm, why they’re all so calm, how they can be thinking of anything other than _getting Jaskier back_ –

“Geralt,” Yennefer says again, voice like steel. “We have to get Ciri to Kaer Morhen. She can’t stay here, it’s too much of a risk.”

“The mage is right,” Eskel agrees, and Geralt’s gaze snaps to him. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but if they’re looking for the girl, she has to be the priority. If they get a hold of her your bard is as good as dead. The fact that they _don’t_ have her is what’s keeping him alive.”

His heart starts beating again, building in tempo until it’s pounding much faster than normal, the blood rushing in his ears as he looks from Eskel to Yennefer and then down to Ciri, who’s staring at the small puddle of blood with tears shining at the corners of her eyes. She looks so small, and scared, and it’s with a muttered curse that he takes in the gravity of the situation.

“Fuck,” he swears, fingers tightening on their grip round the instrument case. “Damn it, Jaskier.” He takes a deep breath, and then turns to look at Yennefer. “Can you do a tracking spell?”

“Geralt – “ she starts.

He cuts her off with a wave of his hand. “I hear you; we need to get Ciri to Kaer Morhen.” He points at the blood on the floor. “Once we’re there, can you track him with that?”

Yennefer looks down, considering. “I think so,” she says after a second, rummaging through her bag and pulling out an empty vial. “But I’m going to be drained. I’m not at full power yet, and we need to get Ciri out of here.”

Geralt nods slowly, watching as she kneels on the wooden boards to scoop up a small quantity of the blood, trying not to think about where it came from. She’s done within a few seconds, and places the vial carefully back in her bag. 

“Get your horse,” she orders, and starts ushering Eskel out the door, which at any other point in time, would have brought a smile to Geralt’s face. Instead, he shoulders the lute and reaches for Ciri, carefully drawing her away from where her eyes are still trained on the floor. She’s trembling, and he barely reacts when she slips her hand into his much larger one.

“I’ll show you where to aim for,” Eskel says as soon as they’re outside, his horse dutifully standing alongside Roach. Yennefer nods and holds two fingers up to his forehead, eyes closing in concentration. After a long moment, she steps back, shaking out her hands.

“Two horses, two Witchers, and a magical princess,” she mutters, rolling her shoulders and raising her arms. “This will be a first for any portal.” Geralt watches as she gestures, curling a hand as the portal starts to open in front of them. Despite the cold, there are beads of perspiration on her brow, and she glances back as the portal finishes forming. “We’ll find him,” she promises.

Geralt walks through the portal, forcing himself to try and believe her.

* * *

The first thing he thinks is _not again_.

He must have drunk more than he thought, for his head to be pounding the way it is. It’s been a while since he’d truly gotten black-out drunk, though the past year has thrown him through quite a loop. It’s not a fun experience being insulted and cast aside by the man he’s been desperately in love with for over twenty years. 

His throat and mouth are parched, and he can feel that his lips are chapped, and his eyes squeeze closed tightly almost automatically before he can truly open them. His head feels like it’s been bashed in by a heavy object.

The next thing he notices is that he’s not wearing any clothes, no fabric anywhere on his body. Not again, he thinks, remembering all the other times he’s drunk the bar dry and tipped into the first bed and pair of welcoming arms he could find. It’s not the most moral way to live his life, nor the healthiest, but he honestly doesn’t give a fuck. He deserves a bit of a breakdown after all the shit he’s been putting up with.

Slowly, the rest of his awareness starts to creep back in increments, and it’s with a vague sense of confusion that he realises he’s not lying on a bed somewhere. The ground below him is cold and hard, and there’s something sharp digging into his neck. He shifts slightly, and the pain in his head rushes back in a glancing blow. It’s easier to whimper and curl in on himself than it is to move.

Once he’s caught his breath and the pain has receded to a more manageable throbbing, he resolves to keep his eyes closed and take stock of what he feels. The sharp thing at his neck is freezing cold and burning at the same time, but if he lies very still, it’s bearable. The same feeling encases his wrists and ankles, steady and unrelenting.

Oh.

_Right_.

It’s coming back to him now; finding Yennefer, the Witcher in Vizima, and the village on the border of Kaedwen. He remembers the soldiers coming in, remembers trying to creep past, remembers hands clutching him and the gag stuffed between his lips, remembers trying to fight but being struck on the head.

He remembers knowing he needs to warn Geralt.

Fat lot of good he’ll be able to do now, stuck in what he assumes is a Nilfgaardian dungeon. The gag is gone from his mouth, and the throbbing in his head has lessened even more, so with some effort he decides to try and open his eyes to see if he can get a better bearing of his surroundings. What for, he doesn’t know – he’s well aware of his own skillset and nothing in it includes escaping from manacles while locked in a cell.

It can’t hurt, he decides, and carefully cracks one eye open, then the other. His vision is swimming, and all he can see at first are vague shapes and a variation in dark and orange-coloured light. Blinking a couple times, his vision slowly clears, only to find there’s not much for him to see after all.

Trying to keep lying as still as possible, he quickly takes in the stone walls, the heavy wooden door, and the chair sitting across from him, all cast in shadows by the single flickering torch. A quick glance down confirms his suspicions, the sight of metal cuffs around his wrists and ankles a stark contrast against his naked skin. He can only assume the collar around his neck is made of the same material, and it’s with a sinking feeling that he notices the etchings on each manacle. Magical, then. It would explain the burning-freezing sensation.

He’s _not_ going to panic.

It’s far easier to tell himself that than it is to do it, already he can feel the rising wave of fear and pain and adrenaline bubbling up in his chest. He tenses, trying to control his breathing, but his breaths are coming in rapid bursts and there’s no use. Oh _gods_ , he’s going to die here, isn’t he, alone and scared and confused – 

The door swings open and he jerks back, the cuffs blinding him momentarily with searing pain. 

“Ah, you’re awake.”

He freezes, and the pain dies back down to its uncomfortable pulsing. Blinking away the freshly-formed tears as best he can, it takes him a second to focus again, eyes falling on the chair across from him, now occupied.

“Glad to see you’re back with us,” the man says, and Jaskier tries to take in any detail that he can. There’s not a lot, the torch behind casting the man mostly in shadow, but there’s a flicker of white when the man smiles. “Almost scared me there. Had to sedate you, you know, but you actually managed to fight it off a couple times. Screamed loud enough to shake the walls.” He chuckles, and the sound of it sends shivers down Jaskier’s spine that he just barely manages to suppress. “Colour me impressed. You’re a fighter.”

“Thank you, I think,” Jaskier responds, and although his mouth is dry and it hurts to talk, he’s relieved he’s able to do it without significant pain. He has no idea what the man is referring to, doesn’t remember screaming, but it would explain why his voice is so hoarse.

“You’re very welcome,” the man says, shifting forwards, and oh, now Jaskier can see that there are the same runes as on his cuffs tattooed across the man’s hands. A mage, then. Just what he needs.

“I don’t suppose,” he begins, tongue heavy in his mouth and a growing sense of dread rising in him. He’s naked and shackled on a floor, the least he can do is try to remain as upbeat as possible. At the very least, it will serve as a good distraction to whatever is about to come. “That you’ll tell me why I’m here?”

The man laughs, teeth flashing again. “Only because you asked so nicely,” he responds. “You see, as I’m sure you’re well aware, you’re acquainted with a certain Witcher.” The man pauses, shifting again. “He has something we want.”

“I highly doubt that,” Jaskier snorts, trying to ignore the way his heart is pounding in his chest. “All he has is a single set of clothes and some swords. Oh, and his horse, of course, but I wouldn’t recommending going anywhere near her unless you want to lose a couple fingers.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” the man says pleasantly, and damn it, his complacent – almost polite – tone is _really_ starting to grate on Jaskier’s nerves. “But no, that’s not what we’re after. Your dear friend has taken something of much higher value.”

He pauses, and Jaskier rolls his eyes. “Spare me the theatrics.”

“Very well.” The man chuckles again. “Princess Cirilla has escaped our best efforts to track her down. She’s his Child of Surprise, and word has it he was seen in Cintra the night the city fell. We know he has the girl.”

Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat. That… _would_ explain why Nilfgaard is so eager to get their hands on Geralt. He may not have gone home in a long time, and he definitely doesn’t consider himself a nobleman anymore, but he _does_ remember the lessons he had growing up, what he’d learnt from watching his family. Having Princess Cirilla would give Nilfgaard the ability to legitimise their hold on Cintra, would give them access to the power and stature her family’s name holds.

“I’m sure you understand our predicament,” the man continues, and Jaskier shakes himself out of his thoughts, freezing again at the lancing pain. “Now, I’m prepared to be reasonable. Tell me everything you know about the Witcher and the girl, and you can be on your way.”

“Thank you for the offer, but I’ll pass,” Jaskier sneers. He’s not an idiot, he knows what will happen if he refuses, but he’s done running from his problems. The least he can do is brave this as best he can, and protect Geralt and Cirilla in the process. He may be angry at Geralt, but he still loves the man so fucking much - far more than would be advisable, really - and there’s no way in hell he’d even _consider_ assisting in Cirilla’s capture. 

The man sighs, sitting up a little further in his chair as he cracks his knuckles. “Somehow, I knew you were going to say that,” he says, and Jaskier hates that he sounds almost sad. “I believe you. Unfortunately, your resolve isn’t going to save you. I’m afraid we will have to do this the hard way.”

“Give it your best shot,” Jaskier taunts, gritting his teeth. He has no way of knowing how long he’ll last, but he’s going to try. He’s always been an irritatingly relentless optimist, and even if it’s in vain, even if he winds up dead, maybe he’ll at least have been able to distract Nilfgaard long enough for Geralt to get Cirilla to safety. He knows there’s not going to be a rescue for him.

“Gladly,” the man agrees, rising from his chair to loom over his form. Sparks dance at his fingertips and Jaskier tries not to look away from the man’s face, defiantly staring into his would-be torturer’s eyes. “I admire your spirit, little bardling. But you’re all alone here. This place is shielded against any kind of magic. Your Witcher and all his little sorceress friends won’t be able to find you here.”

Jaskier keeps his mouth shut, for once in his life, but he doesn’t look away. He already knows Geralt won’t be coming to find him, he’ll have no idea he’s even here. Yennefer might _look_ , she’ll notice he’s missing, at least – but if what the man says is true about the shielding, he’s not sure she’ll even be able to get anywhere near him. Despite her frequent denials, she’s really not healed enough yet to launch a rescue mission.

As he closes his eyes to wait for the inevitable pain, it’s joined by the harsh realisation that he’s well and truly alone, again. The least he can do is protect Geralt and Cirilla to his dying breath.

There’s no way he’ll betray them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry...  
> The next part will be up in a few days, but for now, enjoy this angst-riddled chapter.
> 
> Come yell at me in the comments!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up: some light depictions of violence and mentions of torture, but nothing too extreme. For full warning check the notes at the end.

The portal closes behind them, and Yennefer collapses.

She would have broken her nose if Eskel hadn’t reached out to catch her, slumping into his arms a few feet above the solid flagstones of the courtyard. Ciri cries out in alarm and Geralt swears, rushing forward to look her over. Her eyelids are fluttering and the beads of sweat lace her brow, and there’s a slight shakiness on her exhale. She’d said she was depleted.

“We need to get her to bed,” Eskel says roughly, one hand still holding the reins of his horse.

Geralt nods, blindly reaching out to pick her up himself, a sliver of ice wedging its way more firmly into his heart as he looks down at Yennefer with the realisation that she’s not going to be able to track Jaskier like this.

Shouts ring out as the others come to greet them, quickly changing from warm and welcoming to confused and alarmed when they spot Yennefer in Geralt’s arms, Ciri ducking behind his legs in caution as they approach. Coën grabs the horses’ reins and Geralt can vaguely hear Eskel explaining the situation before Vesemir looks at him with something akin to pity in his eyes, directing him towards the empty rooms that have been prepped for the winter.

He nods, somehow, and manages to get Yennefer settled in bed with warm furs to keep the heat in while she recovers. He knows she’s only drained, she’ll sleep for a while and then be ready to help, but the scars of burnt flesh on her hands and forearms and the twitching of her eyes remind him that she’s not fully healed, not yet, and she might not be able to help him get Jaskier out. 

That’s alright, though, all he needs is a location and he’ll do the rest himself.

There’s a rage starting to gnaw at his insides at the thought of what could be happening to Jaskier, what could continue to happen while they wait. He looks at Yennefer in the bed and his mind goes blank.

He’s not entirely sure what happens for a while.

A day passes – two, if he’s counting the meals and changes in light correctly – and it’s all he can do to get up and join the others in the main hall of the keep. His mind keeps wandering, to Yennefer – unconscious in a room opposite his, and more frequently to Jaskier – held by Nilfgaard with no clues to his safety or well-being.

He knows what men are capable of. He’s seen prisoners of war, has seen those traumatised by torture and abuse, knows how it feels to look down at another nameless and mutilated corpse. Each time hurts just as much as the first, even if his reactions grow duller, smaller. Even if all he does is grit his teeth and walk away. There’s not much he can do in those situations, the ones that are alive are too afraid of anyone – let alone a mutant – and the ones that are dead, well. He can burn the bodies and hope they find peace.

But it’s never been _Jaskier_.

It’s never been someone he knows so well, someone who he may actually have learned how to _love_ for, someone who he now understands he would sacrifice every part of himself to save. He knows what could be happening to him, what most likely _is_ happening to him, and sitting here in this isolated keep in the mountains far away is enough to start to drive him mad. It’s enough that he’s numb and essentially unresponsive, the others watching him with wariness and no little amount of apprehension.

Ciri is the only one who really manages to get him to talk, makes him string more than one or two words together in answer. She’s hurting too, he can tell, and he cares for her enough that he can’t find it in himself to be frustrated when she tries to lift his spirits. He remembers, with increasing bitterness, the last time someone tried to lighten the mood after a particularly harrowing day. He remembers pushing that person away with all the venom he possessed, remembers how it felt to lose them. He doesn’t think he’s ever regretted anything more, and with Jaskier lost to him after being so close, he can’t afford to let it happen to anyone else. There’s no way he’ll lose Ciri, too.

The others are careful around him, asking basic questions that he responds to with a signature grunt or a few scant words, and he’s still aware enough to see the concern in their eyes, the twist of their lips when he doesn’t react other than a cursory hum. They don’t understand, he knows, they _can’t_ understand how it feels to be safe and warm while Jaskier is out there, hurt and alone and scared.

He grips a knife to cut his meat and thinks how something similar is probably happening to the bard’s flesh, washes his hands and wonders whether they’ve tried waterboarding him, scratches a shoulder and hopes they haven’t started removing his nails. He knows all the techniques, has had a few of them used on him once or twice, and the mere thought of Jaskier experiencing any of it is enough to make him sick to his stomach.

It should have been him.

He says as much to Vesemir, on the second day, and is cuffed around the head for his trouble. When he looks up, though, his old teacher’s eyes are sympathetic, hidden away by a hard layer on top.

“You can’t say that,” Ciri protests, when he mumbles the same to her on the third morning, her eyes bright with unshed tears as she scrambles onto her knees at his side. “He wouldn’t want you to be there. All you’re doing is making it worse on yourself.”

She knows Jaskier too, he’s reminded abruptly, and knows about loss and the pain that comes with it. He watches as she clings to his arm, comforting, solid – and tries not to think about his own guilt and worry festering in the pit of his stomach. He should be happy, he knows, his Child Surprise is with him and safe, but at what cost? Morality and emotions have never come easy to any Witcher, pressed down and neglected during training, and he’s at a loss without the needed skills to cope. He’s not sure how Ciri is managing to stay put together.

Maybe, he thinks, at dinner on that third day as he watches her tear into the coarse brown bread, maybe she’s not, and he’s too caught up in his own fears and doubts that he’s not paid due attention to hers. 

She’s not scared, he can tell, but there’s apprehension and nerves and worry that have tangled together into a confusing knot in her scent. She won’t say as much, and he knows she’s trying to be brave, to not let on to her fear – and it almost worries him that she feels she can’t express herself. It’s enough to make the guilt centered around her start to resurface.

“Are you alright,” he gets out after they’re finished eating, the words gruff and sounding more like a statement than a question.

Ciri blinks up at him, and her scent changes subtly to a different kind of nerves, a different kind of worry. It’s not enough to discern its source, but her light eyes stare up at him and he thinks maybe he won’t have to try to decipher it. It’s all there, in her expression, the way she watches him carefully.

“I’m fine,” she says, her voice unwavering, and it’s steady enough that Geralt can’t find the lie in it. “You don’t have to worry about me, I like it here. Your brothers are… nice.”

Geralt snorts at that, and it draws a triumphant smile out of Ciri. “ _Nice_ ,” he repeats. “Eskel, maybe. It’s not a word often used to describe Witchers.”

Ciri shrugs. “They’ve not sold me off to Nilfgaard yet, so they’re good in my books,” she says, grin present on her face.

Her voice is light, teasing, but at the reminder of Nilfgaard, Geralt’s stomach twists. They’ve got Jaskier, they’re looking for Ciri. The two most important people in his life endangered by the one thing he can’t seem to stop. Ciri watches him, sees his expression, and her eyes soften.

“I’m fine, Geralt,” she says again, and fuck, when did she become the responsible one? He’s fairly certain it’s meant to be the other way around, even if he doubts that he’ll ever be enough for her, will ever be able to provide for her in a way that matters. She’s meant to be with family, in Cintra with all the food and warmth and safety she could ever want, not stuck on a mountaintop in a freezing keep while he frets about someone he’s not seen in almost two years. “I’m _fine_ ,” she repeats with a bit more force, drawing him out of his spiral. “And Jaskier will be, too. You’ll find him, and _he’ll_ be fine.”

Geralt swallows, and nods.

The other Witchers tread carefully around him, still. They don’t go easy on him, he’s still having chores foisted on him and is expected to help out, but they’re tentative in their approaches and they don’t try to invite him into conversation. Lambert complains and pokes and prods but doesn’t search for a response, Coën talks to him about hunts and takes Ciri off his hands to train, Vesemir asks after Nilfgaard and what he knows of them. Eskel is the easiest, as he’s always been, reading Geralt’s mood like he did when they were boys and only engaging him when it’s relevant. He checks in on Yennefer, too, pushing Geralt to sleep and eat.

They’re looking out for him, in their own way, but it’s small comfort when Jaskier isn’t here to experience it and mother him like he used to when he was injured.

The fourth day dawns bright and crisp, and Ciri is there to drag him out into the courtyard for her morning practice, which Coën had implemented the very first day they’d arrived when he’d noticed how eagerly she watched him flip knives. It’s a good distraction, Geralt will admit, and she’s not half bad with a blade. Young and unlearnt, but she’ll get better with time. The mornings spent in the courtyard with her and the others are easiest, where he can concentrate on her skill with a sword and not on Yennefer still asleep, or Jaskier possibly at the other end of a similar blade.

“You’re not going to fucking help him by being mopey here the whole damn time,” Lambert tells him, swinging the training sword in his hand as they watch Ciri trail her fingers over the collection of weapons, her eyes wide with wonder at the various blades available. A smirk spreads across his face as he twirls the sword around and eyes Geralt appraisingly. “Ooh, I get it, somebody’s got a little _crush_.”

His fist collides with Lambert’s jaw before he fully knows what he’s doing. 

Immediately, the others are there, shouts ringing out through the courtyard and Vesemir’s hand yanking his arm down and away, Coën checking on Lambert where he’s staggered to the floor, Eskel rushing in between them as Ciri tugs on his other wrist.

“That’s _enough_ ,” Vesemir snaps, glaring at him. “Geralt, go cool off. Lambert, stop making this situation worse.”

Geralt glares back at him, but the older Witcher stands his ground, drawing upon that well of authority that he’s retained since the time they were boys. Vesemir’s mouth hardens, and there’s no sympathy in his eyes now, none of that pity that Geralt hates seeing. It’s almost a relief to have it absent.

He wrenches his arm out of Vesemir’s grasp, turning on his heel to stalk out of the courtyard, Ciri’s hand still wrapped around his wrist as she struggles to keep up with his long strides across the stones.

“You just had to fucking say that, didn’t you,” he hears Eskel groan as he walks away, and the heat of all four of their gazes on his back almost make him want to break out into a run to get away.

“I didn’t realise,” Lambert mutters, and Geralt makes a conscious effort to block out anything else as he steps into the keep, stomping down the hallways to blindly make his way to Yennefer’s room. Ciri is still beside him, fingers slipping in their hold on his wrist, but he can’t find it in himself to slow down so she can keep up without jogging.

The worst of it is, Lambert’s right. He’s always been an asshole and never one for softening his blows, and his words sting and hurt worse than any punch, but Geralt knows he’s right. He can’t help Jaskier, not until Yennefer wakes up and they’re able to find out where he is. For now, all he can do is wait and make sure that everything here stays standing, that they’re safe, that Ciri is alright.

He glances down at her, slowing his steps slightly as they reach the hall that their rooms are in. Ciri’s mouth is set in a grim line, one that he doesn’t like seeing on her young face, but one that’s become all too familiar to him. She looks up and sees him watching her, and the fingers on his wrist tighten as she speeds up. 

She’s strong, he knows this, and it’s a good thing. There’s already too much guilt simmering in him just below the surface about Jaskier, about not being there when he needed him, about the gods damned mountain. The guilt that’s there about not being enough for Ciri is too much to add on to that, right now. She’s strong, and she can handle things better than he would have given her credit for. If there’s one thing he can take solace in, it’s that she’ll be alright.

Lambert was wrong about one thing, though, and it’s taken way too long for him to realise it.

It’s _not_ just a crush.

* * *

He’s not completely sure of how long it’s been, but he wagers it’s been a few days at least. There’s no light in his cell save for the lone torch his torturer takes with him when he leaves, and no window to let in the sun or moon. In a way, it’s easier, because he doesn’t have to think about how hopeless his situation is, how long he’s been gone. It’s just another thing to add to the pile of what to think about when he’s left alone at what he assumes is night.

The pain, too, is bearable, which is not something he’d ever have expected from torture. It comes when the mage twists his hands, sitting forward in that stupid chair and watching as if Jaskier twitching on the floor were some sort of sick entertainment. After the motions stop, however, the pain is suddenly conspicuously absent. If it weren’t for the spasms that run through him after, the blood on his teeth from biting his tongue or the inside of his cheek – he would have thought it had never been there at all.

“Magic is an illusion,” he remembers Yennefer telling him, when she’d first managed to set up her overly-luxurious and impossibly spacious tent from a small piece of cloth. “It’s not really there. It’s temporary, and will vanish the second the source does.”

There are no cuts or bruises – small mercies, he thinks, nothing to get infected – and nothing is broken, yet. The only pains that come when he’s left alone are those of his own making, his muscles sore after clenching and tensing, the sharp searing pain that comes whenever he moves his arms, wrists, or neck in the branded cuffs. He can almost feel his stomach retracting from the little food and water they’ve allowed him, but all in all, it’s not as bad as he was expecting. He’d been anticipating more blows and wickedly sharp knives and such.

In a way, it’s underwhelming.

It’s easy to jeer at his torturer, to laugh and choke on sobs and ask when he’ll get more, when they’ll stop fooling around and actually start. Because this can’t be it, he knows, there’s no way anyone would break all their morals and go against themselves with such flimsy encouragement. The pain isn’t even so much that he can only scream, or only stay silent, he’s able to talk during, and, well. He’s never known when to shut up.

Taunting his torturer may not be the best idea he’s ever come up with, but the man remains as eerily pleasant as he had when he’d first woken up, and knives don’t come out, the pain doesn’t increase.

It doesn’t _decrease_ , either, but he’s working on it.

“I’m afraid I’m under orders not to break you yet, bardling,” his torturer says when he asks again, and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

“ _Please_. You’re supposed to be breaking me,” he spits back, because _honestly_ , he may not have experienced torture before, but it’s not difficult to understand how it works. Contrary to popular opinion, he’s really not as much of an idiot as a certain Witcher makes him out to be.

“I assure you, I’m telling the truth,” the man responds, casually twisting his hand and sending another wave of pain that makes Jaskier spasm, the waves retreating just as quickly as they had come. “I’m here to test you. I will admit, it would have been easier for everyone involved, including yourself, if you had just told me what I want to know, but unfortunately you’ve proven quite resilient.” He sits forward, twisting his hand again and watching as Jaskier tries to keep his composure against the burst of nerve-ending pain. “On the other hand, it means I get to enjoy playing with you while we wait for my superiors. Would have been boring if I’d had to kill you right away.”

_Amateur_. Jaskier tries to roll his eyes again, but there’s a tic in his right cheek that prevents it. “Now that I know I’m to be killed once I cease being useful doesn’t really encourage me to talk,” he points out. “Not that I didn’t already know that, mind. Just a bit of friendly advice for when you’ve got the next fucker in here.”

“Oh, you were always going to die,” the man says mildly, as if he’s discussing the weather. “It was more a question of whether you died on your own terms, you know, telling me what I want and ending your own suffering. Otherwise we’ll break you and take what we need and kill you after.”

“Good to know,” Jaskier quips, and he really, _really_ hates how the man is talking. His voice was grating enough in the first few minutes, and it’s only grown steadily worse. It’s almost as bad as the torture itself, actually.

“I would have liked you a little more broken before my superiors arrive,” his torturer muses, leaning forward as if to get a better look.

Jaskier sneers. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“No matter.” The man waves a hand dismissively. “I can think of something that may demoralise even you. Who knows, maybe you’ve already been subjected to it. Being a bard is almost synonymous with being a whore, after all.”

_Oh_. 

“We can’t have you falling asleep when I’m gone,” his torturer continues, completely skating over his threat. “I’m sure the guards will be more than happy to entertain you in the meantime. They've got quite a bit of pent-up energy, you see, and I’m sure a good beating will help them get rid of some of it. No blood, I’m afraid.” He sighs, as if actually put out by the fact. “But some roughing up wouldn’t hurt. Well, it will hurt you, I suppose.”

The man gets out of his chair and Jaskier’s stomach drops, pushing past the searing pain in his neck as he cranes his head to watch him go, cold fear and dread starting to pool in his chest for the first time during this whole ordeal. The pain has not been fun, not at all, but with those words it seems to have taken on a whole different level. His torturer steps out of the door and a second later a guard comes in, already moving towards him with a vicious leer, hand raised in a fist ready to strike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry!!!  
> As an aside, this chapter does contain some light violence - by which I mean a description of being in pain but no actual beating or torture other than vaguely magical pain inducement. That being said, there is a reference right in the last two paragraphs to possible rape, but nothing is shown, and _nothing will be_ shown in this fic at all. There will be light implications, but it will not go beyond that, and nothing actually does happen. There are references and insults and threats but the action does not happen.  
> Other than that, I hope you enjoy (maybe that's not the right word considering it's pretty much straight angst) this chapter and I'll see you again in a few days!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: non-graphic description of injuries and torture.

Lambert sits down heavily next to him the next day, scarred hands clutching his steel sword and whetstone. Geralt doesn’t look up, staring down at his own fingers as they methodically continue their task, the leather of Roach’s bridle supple under the pads of his thumbs.

“Heard his fucking songs,” Lambert says after a few minutes of long silence, sharpening his sword with the combination of restrained frustration and ingrained care he’s always had.

Geralt grunts. It’s not an apology, not _really_ – more of an unspoken peace offering – but it’s as close to one as he’ll get and he’s willing to accept that.

“They’re catchy,” Lambert continues, and there’s a slight grudging admiration lingering under the gruff tone. “’Course, being around you sounds like a huge fucking waste of time. He’d be better off finding another damn Witcher.”

“Fuck off,” Geralt responds automatically, lacking any heat.

“Never met him, though,” his brother goes on, ignoring his comment. “Might have punched him for writing those songs that are such a pain in the arse. Got paid, a lot more even. He’s good at inspiring some goodwill in greedy skinflint cunts.” 

Geralt hums noncommittedly, just to show that he’s listening. It’s easier, now, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. Sometime between punching Lambert for his remarks yesterday and realising that Ciri is _fine_ , and safe, and seemingly handling the situation much better than he is, he’d lapsed into a sort of numb understanding. It’s not _acceptance_ , there’s no way he’s accepting anything about the situation, and he knows that as soon as the opportunity presents itself, he’ll be on his way to cut down anything that would even think of daring to stand in between him and Jaskier.

For now, though, the words the others have been tentatively saying – or not so carefully, in Lambert’s case – have actually started to sink in. It’s not enough to stave off the sleepless nights and bouts of overwhelming guilt and anger, but enough to keep him on his feet for a little while. At least, he hopes. 

The sound of the whetstone on Lambert’s blade and the soft swipe of cloth against leather is all the sound there is for a few minutes, and Geralt finds himself relaxing as much as he can. This winter has been different from all the others spent in Kaer Morhen, more tension, more dread, more extenuating circumstances.

Finally, Lambert shifts, never pausing in his motions. “We’re not supposed to get attached,” he starts, and it’s oddly contemplative, for him. “This fucking life, the Path.” Geralt can see him shaking his head out of the corner of his eye. “We’re not meant to have friends or companionship; fuck knows we’d be shite at it anyhow.” There’s another pause as he adjusts his grip on his sword. “Your bard seems to have ignored that.”

Despite himself, Geralt feels the corner of his mouth twitch up. “He did,” he agrees, though it wasn’t stated as a question.

Lambert grunts. “Thought so. Wouldn’t have kept the fucker if he didn’t appeal to you somehow.”

Geralt swallows, hastily scrubbing at a piece of metal on Roach’s bit to disguise the way his fingers had slipped at the mention of Jaskier _appealing_ to him. He’s glad all of a sudden that it’s Lambert here, both Eskel and Vesemir would have picked up on his anxious tell immediately. He doesn’t want to hide his confounding flurry of _feelings_ when it comes to Jaskier, but Lambert’s right – _again_ – he’s a Witcher, and instincts don’t disappear in a few days, or even weeks or months. 

He’s not entirely sure how to answer Lambert’s words, so he doesn’t, content to sit in companionable silence again as they each continue with their tasks, Geralt trying desperately to cling to the numbness rather than having to deal with his own shortcomings again. It works, for a bit, and he’s able to momentarily pretend that he’s handling the situation well.

There’s a thud from the hall, and a second later Ciri skids around the corner. Geralt looks up as she races over, her face a flurry of excitement and anticipation. Her hair is a mess, and her clothes are definitely plainer than what she would have been used to in Cintra, but he can’t deny that she looks _fine_ – healthy, even. It’s no small amount of comfort that the sight brings him, and he can feel something in his heart settle at least slightly at that. He can’t do everything right, he knows, but on some fronts, he’s doing better than others.

“What’s lit a fire under your arse this time, cub?” Lambert chuckles, teasing, and Ciri’s gaze flickers over to register his presence before focusing on Geralt without responding.

“She’s awake,” Ciri announces, grabbing Geralt’s wrist and tugging ineffectively. “She’s _awake_ and she’s asking for you! She says she’s back to full strength, or near enough, anyway!”

Geralt’s breath stutters in his chest. The leather slips from his fingers, and he stares at Ciri, wide-eyed. She huffs, pulling at his arm to try and drag him with her.

“Go on,” Lambert tells him, sweeping Roach’s bridle and the polishing cloth out of the way, giving his back a shove. “Go get your witch up and find that fucking bard so we can all finally get some damn peace around here. Gods know we need it.”

Ciri is nowhere near strong enough to actually pull Geralt up and down the corridor, but between her eager tugs and Lambert’s shove at his back, it’s enough to get him moving, following Ciri at a pace that’s not quite running, but is definitely too brisk to just be walking. Vaguely, amidst the blood rushing in his ears as he moves, he thinks he should be running, should be trying to get to Jaskier faster. His feet seem to agree and he speeds up, Ciri now beside him and radiating nerves and excitement as she runs to keep up with his strides.

It seems like an hour before they reach the room Yennefer is staying in, and Geralt is too high-strung to counter that thought as he stumbles through the door, spotting Yennefer awake and sitting on her bed, as immaculate as ever.

He freezes.

Distantly, he knows he should still be moving, should be pushing forward and demanding information and help before turning to go and collect Jaskier as soon as possible. He needs to, he knows, but for some reason there’s a sense of panic rising in his stomach, the fear and guilt and worry coagulating together into an unsettling mess that’s rising in his chest, pushing its way up and up and _up_ –

“Geralt.”

Yennefer’s voice is firm, but not so forceful as to make him sink further into his panic. It’s enough to break through the whirlwind of unfamiliar emotion that’s coursing through his veins, and his eyes snap up to meet her purple ones, watching him coolly. 

He can move again, all of a sudden, as if hearing Yennefer’s voice was enough of a command to break him out of his spell. Cautiously, but not so slowly as to go against his instincts to rush, to _hurry_ , to run and get Jaskier as fast as possible, he slinks towards the bed and sits on the chair next to it. Ciri has already scrambled up onto the sheets, holding Yennefer’s leather satchel and watching the mage expectantly.

Yennefer waits until Geralt is seated, keeping her eyes on him even as she reaches for her bag. “Thank you, Cirilla,” she says, staring at Geralt, assessing him, even as he fights not to fidget under her gaze. He’s growing impatient, the panic may have slightly subsided but there’s still a torrent of desperation to leave and protect what’s his and damn the consequences. The numbness is gone fully, now.

“Yen,” he rasps, and normally he might have been ashamed at how broken his own voice had sounded over that single syllable. Right now, though, he’s desperate and uncaring about how he’s coming off. Jaskier is gone, he’s being hurt, and Geralt _needs_ to find him. He’s willing to be pleading if it helps move things along faster.

There are a few seconds where it’s silent, where she doesn’t answer, her violet eyes brighter without the dark bags sitting underneath them like there had been when they came across her a few days ago. 

“ _Yen_ ,” he says again, and it’s more of a whisper than an actual spoken noise. “Please. I need to find him.”

Once, such a display weakness would have been unthinkable. He would have abhorred it, avoided it, done anything in his power not to be seen in such a way by anyone, let alone two of the most important people in his life. Now, though, he feels almost alone, surrounded by his found family in a keep safe in the mountains, but without the one person he wanted to show it to the most. It’s taken him far too long to realise that, and if showing his weakness is the price to pay for his own stupidity, he’ll pay it gladly a hundred times over.

Yennefer doesn’t answer him – at least in words, but her hands take hold of her bag fully and lift the flap. Her eyes finally shift away from Geralt to search through the contents until she pulls out the vial from the tavern, the contents a deep rust-coloured brown. 

Geralt has to look away even as Yennefer closes her eyes and holds a hand over the glass, even as Ciri sits forward, face awash in curiosity and amazement. The bottle is sealed, the contents likely dry and flaky, but Geralt can still remember the sharp smell of Jaskier’s blood, can practically taste the coppery tang of it on the back of his tongue. It’s a smell he never wants to come close to again.

It’s a few minutes before Yennefer relaxes, the furrow of concentration on her brow morphing into one of worry and consideration more than focus. She slips the vial back into her bag, and Geralt deems it safe enough to look back, carefully avoiding the satchel even though he knows he can’t see through the leather. It’s easier, somehow, if he can’t see the evidence of what’s being done to Jaskier, even if he already knows the truth of it. Instead, he chooses to watch Yennefer, waiting for whatever information she can give him.

“It’s shielded,” she says finally, watching him with an unreadable expression. “We’re going to have to be careful about how we go in. I can portal us to the perimeter, but no further, until we break whatever spell they have concealing them.”

“I don’t care,” Geralt responds immediately, fingers clenching in the fabric of his trousers, already itching to grip his sword and tear apart anyone who’s hurt Jaskier. “I don’t care, Yen. I just need to get as close as possible; I don’t give a fuck about concealments.”

Yennefer regards him again. “They’ll have taken precautions,” she warns.

Geralt rises, fists tightening as he stands. “I don’t care.”

“We don’t know what we’ll be walking into.”

“I don’t _care_.” 

Sighing, Yennefer closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them again, they’re steely and determined, and Geralt can feel a newfound sense of grim satisfaction settling in his chest. He may have once been loathed to admit it, but Yennefer really is the most powerful mage he’s ever come across. There’s no room for doubt now, not until he’s got Jaskier back safely.

“You know, I left Aretuza and the Brotherhood behind because I _didn’t_ want to adhere to men’s commands,” Yennefer huffs, strumming her fingers over the edge of her knee, before sighing. “Fine,” she agrees eventually, setting her feet carefully on the stone floor. “But I need you to swear that you’ll actually fucking listen to me once we’re there. You’re no use to your bardling dead.”

Geralt nods once. “I swear.” He stares at her, willing her to argue – but for once, she doesn’t.

“Alright.” Yennefer nods. “I need to grab a few things. Ciri can help me.” She glances at the girl, who nods firmly. Geralt feels a pang in his chest that’s not quite discomfort at the sight – his Child of Surprise sitting proud and strong and unflinching in the face of grim news. “I’ll be ready within the hour,” Yennefer continues, and Geralt’s eyes flicker back to her, the hard-set line of her mouth determined. “Go get your things.”

Geralt has never followed an order faster in his life.

* * *

The guards don’t entirely keep to their words. 

Blood trickles from a few places, torn open with every movement, but it’s sluggish enough that he’s not overly concerned about blood loss yet. The broken ribs and the hand that’s swollen to almost twice its usual size are far more concerning to him at the moment.

There is an upside, though, to this alteration of routine – if anything positive can be gleaned, it’s that he can now tell the passage of time far more accurately. It’s not down to the minutes, yet, but he knows the schedule: a meagre portion of food, hours spent with the same infuriating mage from the beginning, and then a sorry excuse for dinner followed by the guards working out their frustrations, only to fall into a fitful rest that’s always far too short and wake up to repeat the cycle. 

He counts four days like that before the newcomers arrive.

The only indication Jaskier gets that anything about his usual treatment has changed is that the mage doesn’t immediately appear after his morning (or at least, he assumes it is) meal. He’s not sure how long he lies still, heart beating rapidly with the misplaced but still hopeful anticipation, before heavy footsteps and the clink of metal in the hall dashes any slivers of hope to pieces. He still doesn’t know how long he’s been in this cell, but it’s long enough that he knows the sound of the mage’s strides by heart. His regularly scheduled torture will be continuing, then, just a bit later than usual. 

He doesn’t bother looking up as the cell door swings open. It’s not worth the pain of moving his neck against the collar, he’d learnt that early on, and despite his curiosity at the tardiness of his host he’s still sore and he’s not too far gone to completely ignore the pain in favour of aggravating the man. Thankfully, he’s still got his tongue, he’s been told countless times that that’s infuriating enough.

“You’re late,” he deadpans, the words rough and a bit strained, and he has to pause to spit out a mouthful of blood before he can continue. “I’m disappointed. I’d come to expect so much from your hospitality, but alas, every time you continue to underperform.”

There’s a short pause, and it surprises him. He’s not yet managed to render the mage speechless, but perhaps the lateness has something to do with it.

“A week you’ve had him, and this is what you have to show for it?”

Jaskier’s head snaps up at the unfamiliar voice, neck and wounds immediately screaming in agony at the sudden movement as the collar and cuffs burn hotly against his skin. It’s a few seconds of laboured breathing and squeezed eyes before he can blink and look at the other occupants of the cell.

“It’s not been a full week yet, my lady,” his usual torturer protests, and – _oh_ , for the first time his tone has deviated from the smug tranquility of his normal countenance. Jaskier stares at him for a moment, scarcely daring to look away from the man towards the person that can inspire such fear in his captor.

The woman who comes into view isn’t as tall as the first mage, but the slightly too-symmetrical shape of her face and the flowing grey robes give her away as a sorceress, as someone who demands respect and supplication. Not only that, but Jaskier, who will swear he doesn’t have an ounce of magic in his body, can practically feel the power radiating from her figure. He swallows as inaudibly as possible, any fear that he’s felt before vanishing like an afterthought as he looks up at her warily.

There’s a flick of a wrist, the motion almost bored, but the white-hot pain returns and takes his vision away again. His limbs feel like they’re on fire, stretched and pulled in different directions – only this time, the pain doesn’t subside the way it normally does. He’s vaguely aware of the fact that he’s screaming, or crying, he’s not completely sure he’s not doing either, before slowly the pain ebbs away.

He chokes on a sob as the realisation sets in that the pain is still there, concentrated mostly at his wrists, and as the world rights itself he finds himself face-to-face with the sorceress, his body hanging from chains fastened to he ceiling, shoulders pulled back at an uncomfortable angle to support his weight. The broken ribs have flared up again in a constant throb, pushing at his lungs and leaving him gasping for breath a bit harsher than in his former position. There’s something wet sliding down his face, and he’s not sure whether it’s blood or tears. He doesn’t think he wants to find out.

“I won’t fill your head with pretty words or inconsequential promises,” the sorceress begins, and it’s short and to the point enough that it cuts through Jaskier’s haze of pain. He’s taller than her, and held at a bit of a height, so it’s not hard for him to look her in the eye. He doesn’t like what he sees there. “You’re too clever to fall for that, even if you were stupid enough to get yourself caught. You know what we want.”

Something shifts in the corner of his eye, and Jaskier blinks over towards the doorway of his cell – left open, though there’s no chance of escaping anyhow – to see a tall figure standing just past the flickering torch. He can’t make out everything, but the fair hair and dark armour of Nilfgaard are clearly visible. He looks back at the sorceress, but doesn’t nod, not willing to risk his neck any further.

“I do,” he responds as coolly as possible, even through the pain speaking brings. “And I’ll tell you the same thing I told your little mercenaries. You’re not getting anything from me, so you can fuck right off.”

The sorceress doesn’t sigh, but Jaskier consoles himself by thinking it’s a close thing. “Such devotion,” she says instead, and the derision in her voice is clear. “Do you really think loyalty to a mutant freak will get you anywhere? I doubt the thing even cares for you.”

“He doesn’t,” Jaskier agrees readily, and though he still holds firm to the belief that once upon a time, Geralt had. There’s nothing left of that now, he knows, but he’s never known when to shut up and as misplaced as it may be, he’s still foolishly in love with the man and will defend him with his dying breath. “And _don’t_ call him a thing. He’s more fucking human than you ever were.”

“I highly doubt that, little bardling,” the sorceress sniffs, and it’s so eerily similar to Yennefer that Jaskier blinks. Yennefer, though, makes those remarks out of cattiness and her own inability to form coherent emotional thoughts, Jaskier is sure of it. This witch appears to make them out of sheer contempt. “Do you really think that you’ll be able to save him? That all of this charade is worth it?”

Jaskier refuses to answer, setting his jaw defiantly.

Now, the sorceress does sigh. “Have it your way.” She lifts a hand, reaching towards his forehead, and Jaskier jerks back automatically, the collar around his neck burning at the movement. He freezes, willing the pain to stop, staring back at the witch as she regards him. “Brave one, aren’t you,” she muses, hand still outstretched. “Foolish. If you won’t tell us what we want to know, I’ll have to take it from you. This is your last chance to spare yourself a world of hurt and agony beyond belief.”

Jaskier spits in her face, a mixture of blood and saliva deflecting off of some sort of barrier between them. The man in the doorway stays still, but the mage from the beginning steps forward, almost nervously.

“My lady Fringilla, perhaps we should –” he starts, only to get cut off by a wave of the sorceress’ free hand.

“Silence,” the sorceress – apparently called Fringilla – hisses, and the mage falls quiet behind her so quickly it’s almost comical. “I need to concentrate. You’re welcome to slither away to whatever hole you crawled out of, now. It appears I’ll have to do all of your work for you.”

He wants to watch him slink away in defeat, wants to have one last victory over the man who’d tried so hard to break him, but just as he turns to go the sorceress’ fingers land on Jaskier’s brow and everything else falls away. The pain from before seems but a distant memory, unable to hold a candle to the sheer fucking anguish that washes over him. Everything goes white, and he’s burning and freezing at the same time. His skin feels like it’s been flayed open, his mind screaming in tandem with his mouth and lungs against the torment battering at every inch of him, peeling and ripping and tearing into every fiber of his being.

It’s worse than anything he could ever have imagined, there’s no room for any rational thought to be strung together amidst the chaos and destruction coursing through his veins, the pressure on his mind pushing until something snaps and it becomes so much harder than before to hold on, to focus on anything, the very essence of himself crying out for it to just _stop_ , for it to _go away_ , to just let him _die_ –

He comes back to himself, gasping and breathing harder than he thinks he ever has in his life, limbs shaking and face twitching with phantom pains that seize up his muscles and push insistently against his lungs. It’s a long time before he can fully take stock of himself or even see, blinking into the darkness until he finally reaches awareness along with the sense that there’s something _wrong_ , something behind his eyes that aches in a way no physical thing ever could.

“Well, that’s something, I suppose,” comes a voice, a woman’s voice, and all of a sudden, he remembers the mage, remembers the torture and the cell. His vision is fragmented, and the low light isn’t helping matters, but he can just barely make out the grey of the sorceress’ robes. “He’s built his walls up pretty high. There’s something there that’s stopping me from getting in.” The sorceress is talking to someone, he realises, likely the man in the doorway that he hadn’t been able to get a good look at.

“So you have nothing,” comes a male voice, likely the other man’s, and Jaskier is almost startled by the sound of it. It’s hard, yes, but at the same time softer than he was expecting.

“I didn’t say that,” Fringilla snaps tersely, and Jaskier tries to get his vision to focus on her. “I _said_ I can’t get to the information we need. But I know of a way to get it.”

“What is it?” the man demands.

Fringilla’s face comes into focus just on time for him to see the sneer that spreads across her lips. “There’s a reason he’s so loyal,” she says, and her tone is low and dangerous enough for him to freeze, so push away the pain he’s still feeling to stare at her in horror, praying desperately to any god that might hear him for _no_ , not this, anything but this. None of them answer, and the sorceress steps back, watching him smugly. “He’s in love with the mutant.”

Jaskier’s heart drops out of his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the next chapter! I'm sorry that it took a bit longer than the others, I was a bit busy with an internship and it momentarily slipped my mind! Hopefully, the angst level will partially make up for it, and I'll be back in a few days to deliver even more!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: non-graphic depictions of torture.

The forest that surrounds them as they step out of the portal is dark, nightfall covering broad swaths of land as far as the eye can see. Geralt frowns, hand automatically reaching for his sword as soon as his feet fall onto the forest floor.

“Wait,” Yennefer hisses, reaching a hand out to stop him as the portal closes behind her, leaving them without a true light source close by. Geralt can see relatively easily in the dark, but even his Witcher senses are unnecessary to spot the pinpricks of light a few hundred yards away. Yennefer must see them too, eyes narrowing as she steps forward. “This is the edge of the magical barrier,” she explains, dropping her outstretched hand when Geralt lowers his to his side. “They’ll have guards posted.”

“Good,” Geralt growls, fingers itching for his sword again. He’s here for Jaskier, and every guard is just another obstacle to overcome before he’s able to make safe his bard.

Yennefer sighs, and were it not for the fact that they have to remain alert – neck-deep in enemy territory – Geralt knows she’d be whirling on him in exasperation. “ _Not_ good,” she disagrees, and he can make out her eye roll when he glances to the side. “The second we step over this line, Nilfgaard will know we’re here. We’ll have all of their guards on us in seconds.” She sniffs disdainfully. “This has Fringilla written all over it.”

Logically, Geralt knows she’s right. He doesn’t know who Fringilla is, but he’s able to guess her type from the tone of Yennefer’s voice. “Can you break it?” he asks, careful in his movements so he doesn’t accidentally cross over the invisible line.

“Yes,” Yennefer responds immediately, taking a half-step back and kneeling, tracing her fingers over the ground. “It’s not as powerful as I was expecting. Fringilla is a horrendous bitch, and she always was overconfident. Probably thinks no one would bother trying to rescue a mere bard.”

Geralt bristles at the implication. “He is not a _mere_ –”

“As much as I enjoy your brutish displays of protectiveness,” Yennefer cuts him off easily, rising back to her feet with grace and just a hint of stiffness in her limbs, likely from not having moved much over the past few days while she slept. “We don’t have much time. The barrier is weak, it shouldn’t take much to break it. I don’t want to imagine why Fringilla is focusing her energy elsewhere, but I doubt it’s for anything good.”

Gritting his teeth, Geralt frowns, curling his hands into fists to restrain from doing anything he might regret. “Yen,” he snaps, her words lighting a new surge of concern in him. “What does _that_ mean?”

“It means exactly what you think it means,” Yennefer snaps back tersely, violet eyes flickering over the trees, searching for something. 

What, Geralt doesn’t know, but he’s learnt enough by now to not antagonise her more than needs be, especially since without her, he’s well aware there’s no saving Jaskier. Instead of resorting to his usual frustration, he makes do with a low rumble that comes off as a warning.

“Stop it,” Yennefer chastises him, eyes still scanning the trees in front of them. She starts moving, cautiously, keeping her gaze trained on high and wordlessly expecting Geralt to look for any incoming threats. “It means that I don’t know Jaskier half as well as you do, but I’d wager he wouldn’t just give away all your secrets to the first bloody half-rate mage that came calling.” 

Geralt nods, checking to make sure that none of the pinpricks of light have come closer as they walk, keeping rigidly to the path Yennefer makes so as not to accidentally trigger the barrier. 

“Now I don’t know about you, but –” Yennefer stops, voice dropping and freezing in place when there’s a snap of a branch up ahead. “Get down,” she orders, already crouched in a stance that makes Geralt want to stand tall and fight, ready to take on anything that comes hurtling at them. Before he can unsheathe his sword, however, Yennefer whips her head around to glare. “Listen to me,” she hisses, eyes hard. “We don’t want to raise the alarm, and we don’t want anyone to notice a guard missing. _Get. Down_.”

He doesn’t want to. He wants nothing more than to spring forward, to advance and hack and slash his way to wherever they’re keeping Jaskier and whisk him away before anything happens to him, before they have a chance to hurt him more than they already have.

But he also knows Yennefer is right.

It’s a split-second decision, one that comes from decades of evaluating threats and determining how best to react, and he knows that if a guard comes out of the trees and he attacks, within seconds, any mage worth their salt will know they’re here, and then getting Jaskier out will be nigh on impossible. He’s never done well with taking orders from anyone, but now, for once, it’s the best thing to do. He crouches.

With no words or light to focus on, his senses sharpen, evaluating the threat up ahead. There’s a rabbit underground a few yards away, heart thumping rapidly, and a bird shuffling on some of the branches up above. The only sign of anything around them was that first crack, and now, focused, he can smell the buck wandering through the trees, can hear its hooves thudding against the dead leaves that litter the forest floor, its breaths sharp and loud against the quiet of the night. There’s nothing other than wildlife around them for at least half a mile.

At that, he relaxes, ignoring Yennefer’s grabbing hands as he moves to stand straight again. “It’s just a deer,” he tells her sharply, nostrils flaring as he picks up the scent of the nearest guard, deep within the trees and too far away to notice their presence.

“You could have told me that earlier,” Yennefer grumbles, standing and brushing dirt and twigs from her skirts. “Great lot of help you are, fighting me on our safety and not bothering to let me know the approaching guard was actually just a fucking animal.”

Geralt sends her a glare, which she ignores.

“Put those Witcher senses of yours to use and help me,” she orders, moving further through the trees, Geralt following along just as carefully as before, eyes catching on some burnt lines on one of the oaks. “There will be a mark, somewhere around the edge of the barrier,” Yennefer continues, and Geralt turns to take a closer look at the lines. “An eleven rune, probably. We need to find it to get through.”

Heart sinking, Geralt raises his arm. “Like that?”

Yennefer steps up beside him, letting out a noise of frustration when she sees the mark on a tree yards across the line of the barrier. “I need to get to the sigil,” she says, staring at the thing with barely concealed malice in her eyes, as if she can burn it by looking at it. Under normal circumstances, Geralt would have believed she could. Now, though… “My magic can’t get through,” she huffs, and he notices that her hands have curled into fists. “I have to get to the sigil and damage it, corrupt it somehow. I can’t do that from out here.” Her skirts shift, and Geralt almost is fooled into believing that she actually stomped her foot at the harsh reality they’re facing. As it is, he finds he wants to do much the same thing – albeit more destructively.

“Fuck,” he breathes, looking up at the sigil etched on the tree, tantalizingly out of reach. He doesn’t want to think about what it means for them, even though he knows that the only option is a full frontal assault. It’s not what he wants, but there’s a spark in him that rages at the thought of Jaskier being left alone with Nilfgaard having their way with him. If fighting through hordes of soldiers is what it takes to get him out, Geralt will do it without a second of hesitation.

There’s the sound of another branch snapping and Yennefer whips her head around, cautiously watching as the buck Geralt had sensed earlier moves across the forest floor, halting in its tracks and looking at them for a split second before darting past them and bounding away through the trees. 

Geralt sighs almost inaudibly, too tense to care if it had been anything other than an animal. His panic has mostly subsided, replaced by the cool numbness he’d been feeling the past few days, but there’s a rage simmering under his skin at the thought of being so close to his goal.

To his right, he hears Yennefer inhale sharply, and turns to face her, ready for whatever threat she’s seen coming their way.

“The deer,” she says slowly, eyes fixed on where it had been a moment prior. Geralt follows her gaze, his own eyes widening in realisation as he sees what she does.

“The barrier doesn’t stop everything,” Geralt remarks, turning to look back at the sigil.

“They’d get alerts every time a leaf falls or an animal moved,” Yennefer confirms, nodding. She glances at Geralt, eyebrow raised appraisingly. A sly smirk spreads over her face. “How good are you with a bow?”

* * *

When he wakes, there are warm fingers caressing the side of his face, a calloused palm lightly brushing over his cheekbone. Jaskier sighs in content, keeping his eyes closed as he leans into the touch. He knows this hand, knows the dips between each knuckle and has felt the whorls on every fingertip, has smoothed bandages across the lines on the palm, and fantasised about pressing kisses to the sparse dusting of hair on the back.

It’s the easiest thing in the world to push closer, to try and nuzzle against the warm skin against his cheek. He moves, wanting to get as close as possible, wanting to make a home between those great hands that wield weapons with strength and surety but are gentle when stitching up a wound or petting Roach, the hands that since the first day in Posada have never raised a hand against him, not even on the mountain when – 

A burst of pain flares through Jaskier’s neck and he jolts, pulling away from the hand that can’t be there, that he will never feel again, the hand that belongs to his Witcher. Tears prick at the edge of his eyes and he tries to get his breathing back under control, stops moving and waits for the pain to subside even as he feels the weight of being held by his chained arms. It’s a terrifying prospect to open his eyes, but he does, little by little until he can just manage to make out – 

Geralt.

Those hands are at the Witcher’s sides, the familiar sleeves of the too-often mended black shirt clinging to his arms, rolled up past the elbow like when he would oil his sword, sleeves pushed out of the way. It’s familiar, too familiar, and it takes everything Jaskier has in him to lift his eyes and take in the face of the man in front of him.

It _is_ Geralt.

Exactly the way he remembered – white hair slightly greasy and falling out of the tie he’d pulled it back in, face impassive and eyes layered hard over a depth of unshown sentimentality. It’s all Jaskier has been wanting for weeks, months, years – and he can’t help but choke on a sob as he finally looks into those golden eyes.

“Geralt,” he rasps, the word grating on his tongue and lungs as he looks up at the man he’s been in love with for over two gods-forsaken decades, standing before him in the same gruff manner as ever. “ _Geralt_.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt responds, and Jaskier could almost weep at the way his name sounds coming from those lips. He’d spent so much time on anger, time debating whether or not to forgive and follow the man he’d wasted twenty years of his life on, but now – hung like a carcass at a butcher’s shop in this nightmare of a prison – he thinks Geralt is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

It’s not that he _didn’t_ think that, before, but as his Witcher steps back up to him, hands coming back to gently rest on his cheeks, Jaskier could swear that Melitele herself had come down just for him.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says again, a little more force in his voice, and Jaskier blinks up at those golden eyes that have haunted his every waking dream.

“Geralt,” he croaks back, itching to get out of the chains and away from this place, but somehow, perversely, not wanting to ruin this moment. It’s soft and tender and horrible all mixed into a jumbled mess, the pain sending echoes down his arms and his spine and ribs pressing at his lungs, but Geralt’s hands are warm and gentle and seem to soothe away all fears. He tries to push up into them, get closer, but the collar around his neck burns and he freezes, panting until the pain ebbs away. “Get me down,” he begs, calm despite the frantic beat of his heart. “Get me out of here.”

Geralt shifts back, his hands still in place, but his eyes are searching, worried. “What did you tell them?” he asks, voice demanding in the way it used to be whenever he thought Jaskier was lying or hiding something from him. This time, though, there’s a layer of steel that he doesn’t recognise, something cold and unfamiliar that sits wrong in the pit of Jaskier’s stomach. 

“I… I didn’t,” he protests weakly, air coming easier to him now, but with his broken ribs agitated and sending stinging pains through his side. He wonders, briefly, if they’ve punctured a lung, if that’s why every inhale feels like he’s been stabbed with his own knife.

The hands on his cheeks tighten slightly. “I need to know what you told them,” Geralt growls, voice low and dangerous in a tone Jaskier’s never heard directed at him before. “What did you tell them about Cirilla? Where did you tell them we are?”

“Geralt, what are you –” Jaskier all but sobs, wanting to wrench himself away from the hands on his face, the palms that are course and familiar and starting to press in a way he doesn’t know, a way that’s rough and hurtful without any trace of care.

“Tell me where she is,” Geralt orders, hands slipping down to either side of Jaskier’s neck, pressing until spots appear in Jaskier’s vision. 

He wants to reach out, to grab at Geralt’s hands, ask what he’s doing, why he’s doing this, his breath coming harder and shallower as he stares helplessly up at the man he once trusted with his life, golden eyes boring into his with barely concealed malice, and –

 _Oh_.

A low whine forces its way out of his throat, tears welling up in his eyes as the realisation lands like a rock sinking to the bottom of a lake.

“Interesting,” Geralt says, but it’s not his voice, it's not gruff and monotone and rasping at the edges. It’s a woman’s, a voice that he can’t quite place but that sends shivers up his spine, forcing him into worse convulsions that merge with the pain from his neck where Geralt is holding him.

“You’re not Geralt,” he manages to choke out, blood welling up in his mouth from where the chokehold is forcing open lacerations. Now that the words are out, he knows it’s not Geralt, there’s no way it could be. Regardless of whatever disagreements they’d had, whatever blame had been laid at the other’s feet, Geralt would not have immediately resorted to violence. He’d never done that in this way, never hurt him on purpose after that first day. And besides – Jaskier’s eyes widen as he realises – Geralt would never ask him to betray a child, least of all his child, no matter how much he liked to try and outrun destiny.

The hand falls away from his throat and Jaskier gasps for breath, not daring to close his eyes as the thing that is not Geralt steps away, face contemplative. The pain doesn’t worsen, but his vision seems to splinter as Geralt’s black clothes are replaced by grey robes, his white hair and scarred face morphing into smooth skin and carefully controlled dark waves. It’s almost seamless, were it not for the fact that the edges of the woman’s form still flicker between Geralt and her.

All of a sudden, he remembers the mage – her name something soft and twisted, her fingers against his forehead and that searing pain that seemed to rip something out of the recesses of his mind without his consent. His mouth, already dry but for the red of his own blood, parches even more at the memory of the sorceress pronouncing his secret like a grain of knowledge to be exploited. 

His vision cracks at the seams and it’s all he can do to keep focussing on the mage, lungs and broken ribs protesting every heave as he tries to catch his breath, legs twitching as they scramble to support him with no hope of removing any pressure from his arms. The mage watches him, all morbid fascination as she regards him falling apart in front of her.

“You’re more resilient than I had anticipated,” she tells him casually, as if making polite conversation. 

Jaskier tries to respond, but the words get stuck in his throat, more blood bubbling up to join the drops already leaking out of the corners of his mouth. Instead, he spits the mixture of saliva and blood as best he can, aiming for the mage even if he remembers his failed attempt earlier, however long ago that was. This time, there’s barely enough strength left in his system to do anything more than cough up the blood almost directly onto the ground in front of him.

The sorceress tilts her head, watching the red drops as they fall to the floor, before her eyes move back up and a faint line forms between her brows. It’s the most emotion he’s been able to get from her so far, and without his words or real range of motion, Jaskier is quite proud of even that. There’s not much in his mind that he can hold on to, the edges of pain still gnawing at his insides, but it’s enough for now.

There’s a sigh, and the mage lifts her hand, performing a complicated gesture that leaves Jaskier gasping for breath again. “You can end this anytime,” she reminds him, waving her hand again and taking away the feeling of a band compressing his ribcage. “It’s simple. Tell us where your precious Witcher is, and the pain will stop.”

The only thing that comes out of his mouth is a short wheeze, but Jaskier still glares at her as best as he can, lips silently forming the words he desperately wants to say. _Fuck you_.

“Let’s try again, shall we?” the sorceress muses, ignoring the jab, lips barely twitching up in a sadistic grin as she steps forward, hands reaching up towards his head. 

Jaskier’s vision splinters again, and the mage’s form flickers, warping back into the figure of Geralt right as her hands land on his forehead. The white-hot pain is blinding and he screams, eyes forced shut.

When he can see again, after minutes or hours – time has become as unknown to him as safety – it’s to the image of Geralt flickering in and out of vision, merging with the witch’s shape until he can’t tell the two apart, if they ever were separate beings. A finger runs down the side of his face and all thoughts are pushed out of his mind, fleeing the onslaught of torment that rips through him, sharper than any blade.

As tears and blood obstruct his vision, all he can see through the haze are Geralt and the mage’s faces, each one flickering in and out of view so quickly he can’t tell where one begins and the other ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick update - the last chapter got uploaded and was missing a chunk where Fringilla gets introduced, but I've now fixed it and it should be complete. Anyways, here's the new update... I can only apologise


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: pretty graphic description of torture and fighting, nothing is done in too much detail except for one scene which starts at the paragraph beginning with "Turning, he locks eyes on the second guard" and ending just before the paragraph beginning with "'Geralt,' Yennefer snaps, drawing his attention". In the notes at the end I'll explain what happens in that section for those who skip it. Other than that, it's mainly vague descriptions of pain, and a lot of mentions of blood. There is also a slight reference to suicidal ideation, but it's very brief and in the seventh paragraph of Jaskier's perspective.

As much as Geralt had wanted to storm in immediately after Yennefer pulled out a bow and quiver from gods know where, the fact remained that neither of them had any real idea of what they were walking into. The easiest thing, Yennefer had pointed out, was to watch the guard patterns and see when shifts changed. By the time midday had arrived, Geralt knew all he needed to and was more than ready to attack.

“We’ll go at the next guard change,” Yennefer says decisively. “Less chance of us getting caught early.”

Geralt hates that she’s right, but nods his head in begrudging agreement. By that time, even this early in the winter, the sky will have already darkened considerably – making their advance far easier than in broad daylight. He wants to go, to find Jaskier as soon as possible, get him out of whatever torture contraptions Nilfgaard has been able to think up (and he dreads to know the answer, he’s seen a fair number in his lifetime and knows intimately how cruel humanity can get when denied what it wants), and leave for Kaer Morhen – preferably after razing the whole place to the ground.

He can see it, now, about half a mile within the magical barrier. An old fortress – likely doused in even more protective charms – and one that seems to be decrepit, teetering on the edge of falling into ruin. Normally, it would be a positive, something good as entrance would be easily accessible, but instead his stomach had sunk as soon as he noticed the layout of the balustrades, the design clearly Cintran in origin. It hadn’t come as a shock that they were in Cintra, no, he had almost immediately noticed the distinctive smell of Cintran soil – now marred by smoke and decay – but he was far too familiar with the notion of underground tunnels in their keeps and strongholds. If Jaskier was being kept below ground, which seemed the most strategic position, their objective was that much harder.

“We’ll find him,” Yennefer says, almost as if she can read his thoughts, and her voice is uncharacteristically reassuring. He shifts uncomfortably, unsure what to do. There’s a reason he prefers silence, why he speaks in as few words as possible. Emotions do not come easy to any of his kind, least of all him, and he knows that Yennefer is well aware of that.

“Hmm,” he responds, hoping that it’s enough for now. They've still got three-quarters of an hour before the guards change, before they can advance, and despite knowing that he’ll never be able to concentrate enough to meditate in that time, silence is far easier to handle in this instance. If Yennefer were to push him, he’s not sure he’d be able to stay composed.

Thankfully, Yennefer seems to understand his need for quiet, and a full twenty minutes pass with no words spoken. Geralt watches the guard closest to them patrol up and down, and it’s not hard to picture the bored expression on the man’s face.

“What is Jaskier to you?” Yennefer asks suddenly, and it’s only decades of training and experience that stop Geralt from instantly turning to look at her.

As it is, he can’t help the way his eyes flick over to try and gauge her expression. “I don’t know what you mean,” he manages to get out, settling his gaze forward but unable to stop glancing back in her direction. “He’s a…” He remembers that night after the Djinn attack, the way Yennefer had looked as unimpressed with him then as he does now. He remembers Jaskier’s blood, warm against his hands, remembers the way the bard’s body had lain still and silent on the canopied bed. He remembers what Yennefer had said then, during an eerily similar conversation, and the words dry up on his tongue. He swallows before trying again. “He’s a friend.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “Yes, but do you love him?”

“I…”

Geralt stops, because that’s the question, isn’t it? He knows he cares for Jaskier, probably more than he’s ever cared for anyone, and he’s finally been able to admit to himself that those feelings are not platonic. He loves Jaskier, yes, but there’s a difference between quietly acknowledging it in the recesses of his mind and saying out loud for the world – or in this instance, Yennefer – to hear. 

There’s also the small question of whether or not Jaskier loves him back. He’d thought it had been misplaced fascination, puppy love that would soon be forgotten, but years and years went by and it didn’t seem to diminish. After the mountain, Geralt had thought that Jaskier would surely have snapped out of the daze, but the song he’d heard in the tavern that night… he doesn’t know. It’s not a common thing, for him, to not understand something in a way that annoys him this much, it’s foreign and uncomfortable and he wants the bard to love him, wants to be able to say it back, give Jaskier as much as he can, but he doesn’t know _how_.

“Let me put it this way,” Yennefer tries again, watching him carefully. “Would you die for him?”

“Yes,” Geralt answers immediately, no hesitation in his voice.

He knows that. _Has known_ , he amends in the safety of his own mind, and for a while. It definitely wasn’t instantaneous – the bard had been nothing short of an aggravating nuisance in the beginning – but despite Geralt’s almost infinite misgivings and precautions Jaskier had somehow managed to worm his way into Geralt’s affections, priorities, heart – and it’s downright infuriating. Now, especially, when he’s faced with the fact that he’s about to go rescue a man who may very well hate him, and with good reason.

Beside him, Yennefer looks resigned with his answer, as if it’s the one she’d been expecting, but simultaneously dreading. Somewhere, Geralt feels his stomach lurch with what he now knows is guilt. They’ve not had a full discussion about their own relationship – not since the short one in the woods when they stumbled across one another – but he knows a longer one is needed. Even if they’re both fine with where they are, even if they’ve both accepted that they simply do not work, both of them are volatile by nature and there’s bound to be an implosion. For now, though, their own interpersonal issues have taken a back seat.

“There’s a – quite frankly – adorable little girl with the weight of a kingdom resting on her shoulders, waiting for you at Kaer Morhen,” Yennefer points out, still watching him with a probing look, and it’s not what Geralt had been expecting, so it takes him a second to blink and catch up before Yennefer continues. “You need to be there for her. You can’t leave her alone.”

“She won’t be alone,” Geralt responds, not daring to take his eyes away from the guard he can see in the distance, slowly walking further away as his shift ends. “She’ll have you, and Vesemir.”

Yennefer laughs quietly, a sharp, biting sound. “Oh, yes, thank you so much for binding me without my consent once _again_ ,” she snaps, venom dripping from her voice. “She _will_ , but neither I nor Vesemir is the one bound to her by Destiny. We didn’t make the godsawful decision to ask for the Law of Surprise.”

Geralt doesn’t know how to answer, and Yennefer sighs before they lapse into another silence, this one more uncomfortable than the last. It’s grown darker out, and there’s only a handful of minutes until the guard changes and they make their move.

“Jaskier told me about her,” Yennefer says suddenly, breaking the silence with a mere minute to spare, and Geralt’s eyes snap to her immediately. She looks smug, and he’s about to turn away again with a huff, but her face hardens and practically orders him to stay put. “He seemed very fond of her, as I’m sure you can easily imagine. Tell me, Witcher, do you think he’d want you to sacrifice yourself for him and leave little Ciri on her own?”

He snarls, ready to snap back with something woefully underprepared and ill-thought out – Yennefer has always been able to call him out and tear apart his arguments with harsh realties – but before he can get anything out of his mouth a sharp whistle rings out through the trees. Immediately, he turns back, focused on the sound of the guard a few hundred yards away turning and ambling off, back towards the direction of the fortress.

“We have to go now,” Yennefer hisses in his ear, and pushes his arms up. Geralt draws back the bowstring easily, aiming for the burnt lines in the shape of a rune on the oak directly ahead. It’s a small target, but not impossible, and even though he’s fairly rusty at archery the distance is small enough that he’s confident he’ll make it. Exhaling, he tilts the bow slightly and lets loose.

There’s no sound, no indication of anything having happened, but Yennefer breathes out deeply, her eyes falling closed for a few seconds before they open again, her expression shifting into one of cool determination with just a hint of malice. She waves a hand and the bow and quiver disappear, back to wherever she summoned them from, and a smirk settles over her features.

“Let’s go,” she says, and Geralt doesn’t need to be told twice, springing over where the invisible boundary had been without a second thought, Yennefer running behind him as he advances. Their preparation had paid off, as there aren’t guards within sight until the fortress is barely a hundred feet away, when a shout of panic sounds throughout the clearing and the alarm is raised.

Geralt barely slows down to draw his sword, grip sure as ever as he advances towards the first group of soldiers who scramble into formation. They needn’t have bothered, as a blast of magic sends them flying. Geralt doesn’t have to look around to see what Yennefer is doing, he hears her incantations well enough, even as he cuts into the first solider and continues to the next. There are fewer than he was expecting, likely due to overconfidence in the enchanted barrier, and he bites back an impulsive sneer as he ducks through a doorway into the fortress itself. 

Inside, the walls have crumbled with age, a few wooden beams here and there propping the ceiling up so the rest of the structure doesn’t collapse in on itself. There are even fewer soldiers here – he’s reminded of the little care commanders show their troops – and the ones that don’t meet their end on his blade or flee are caught by Yennefer, sharp flashes sending them flying and crashing against walls and onto the floor.

At the far end of the space, Geralt sees a shadow, the floor stopping to transition into stairs leading underground. One of the soldiers guarding the entrance has fled, and he makes quick work of the other one, halting on the first step to turn and look back. “Yennefer!” he calls, and she looks up from where she’s just stabbed one of – by the look of the helmet – the captains with her wickedly sharp blade, a splash of blood across her face. 

She makes quick work of the man quickly, rushing across the hall towards the stairs, her hands forming the shape of a glowing ball that’s such a light violet shade it’s almost white.

“Go!” she shouts at him, and he does, leaping to the floor of the tunnel as she dives in after him, pushing the ball of light up out of her hands and letting it explode in the room above. Afterward, the silence is deafening, but Yennefer just straightens and pushes the hair out of her face nonchalantly. “No one is going to be following us,” she says, all grim resolution, and Geralt nods in satisfaction before taking off through the underground tunnels, slightly warier than he had been above ground.

It’s two halls down that he catches the clearest scent of what he’s been looking for, and it’s immediately overwhelming.

Geralt can smell blood, _Jaskier’s_ blood, and the scent of it makes him want to gag, makes his vision turn the same shade of red as the blood itself, and it only gets stronger as he follows the smell and turns a corner, sliding into a hallway with Yennefer hot on his heels. She’s breathing heavily, not quite panting yet, and it’s enough to reassure him that she’s doing fine as he steps fully into the corridor.

There are three guards standing watch, a careful sentry around a door about halfway down, and Geralt barely has time to think before he’s launched himself at them with vigor. The smell of Jaskier’s blood is almost blinding, now, and as he passes the door quickly to get to the third soldier, he almost falters because of the intensity. His nose is sensitive, he knows that – even with Jaskier’s scent clogging his mind he can still easily differentiate between the smell of the final guard as he pulls his steel sword out of the man’s chest and the other two, already lying prone on the floor behind him. Even so, the sheer amount of blood he can smell, the overwhelming presence of it, means that Jaskier has lost a significant amount.

“The door is warded,” Yennefer says from behind him, and he turns, letting the guard slump to the floor and promptly pushing him out of mind.

“Can you open it?” Geralt asks, holding his breath as he watches Yennefer run a hand along the lintel, brow furrowed in concentration.

After a second, she takes a step back, face determined. “Yes,” she says, and it’s confident enough that Geralt believes her. “We don’t know what we’re going to –”

“Yen,” Geralt growls warningly, almost daring her to finish that sentence. He knows what she was about to say, knows that with the cloying layer of blood sitting thickly on his tongue it’s more than likely they’ll go in to find Jaskier already bled out, but he can’t think like that right now. He won’t, not when they’re so close. He opens his mouth to tell Yennefer to go ahead, to open the door, but a wet hacking sound stops him before he can.

Turning, he locks eyes on the second guard, the one who had been stationed right outside the door. There’s a bright red slash across his chest that’s bleeding sluggishly, the man’s heart audibly slowing down as he veers towards death. The guard gurgles, blood bubbling up between his lips and dripping down his chin even as a sick smirk spreads across his features. 

“Y’r tha’ Witch’r,” he slurs, words hardly coherent through the liquid in his mouth and the slackened jaw.

Geralt grits his teeth. “I am.”

The man lets out what Geralt thinks is supposed to be a cackle, his teeth red with blood as his mouth falls open. “H’re for… tha’ b’rd.”

“I am,” Geralt says again, his own heart thundering in his ears even as the man’s slows more, only interrupted by the sounds of Yennefer muttering as she works at the door.

“Th’ght so,” the guard says hoarsely, and unlike some of the men Geralt has seen fighting for Nilfgaard – young, terrified, forced to be here by a corrupt ruler – this man’s face is stretched maliciously. “Y’ sh’ld know,” he wheezes, making no move to get up, but keeping his eyes locked on Geralt’s, breathing in and gathering what seems to be the last of his energy to be able to coherently get out whatever he intends to say. “He’s a _screamer_.”

Before he fully realises what he’s doing, Geralt moves his arm, and the man’s throat has a new red smile to take away from the one on his face. The guard chokes as the flesh of his neck is torn apart, blood gushing from the gaping slash that reveals the bone. The sound is unnervingly satisfying to Geralt’s ears, and all too soon fades away into silence as the lights in his eyes go out, staring blankly at somewhere just above Geralt’s left shoulder.

“Geralt,” Yennefer snaps, drawing his attention, and he’s more than willing to look away from the dead man on the floor in front of him to turn to her, watching with bated breath as the lock on the door briefly glows purple, a small pop sounding a few seconds later as the mechanism fries under the magic. It’s underwhelming, and in any other occasion Geralt would have made some sort of unimpressed quip at Yennefer’s expense, but the smell of _Jaskier_ and _blood_ is still permeating his senses and he’s helpless to do anything but shoulder past her, slamming the door open so he can finally enter the room. 

Blue eyes meet his yellow ones, and time seems to stop.

* * *

If he had ever had any semblance of guessing the duration of time, all of that has long since flown out the window. There are no more breaks, no more guards coming in to beat him bloody, instead, the pain is a constant presence under his skin.

And over it, too, if the numerous searing open wounds that drip blood all over him and onto the floor count for anything.

The pain before hadn’t been fun, not at all, but it was the same every time – no alteration, no increase or decrease in intensity – and certainly no pauses for the mage to make polite small talk. It hadn’t been something he had grown used to, not really, but in a way he still had. It had been slightly more bearable each time.

That was nothing compared to this.

Jaskier doesn’t know whether it feels like burning or like freezing, whether every sharp tug on his skin is a new gash or just a spasm, whether the pressure in his shoulders comes from holding him up on the chains or having been dislocated. It’s hard to identify what he feels, he only knows that it’s everywhere, and that it’s never-ending. There aren’t any breaks, not even ones for him to be asked questions, instead they get thrown at him with every sharp wave that overtakes him.

The worst part is that he doesn’t know what’s real and what isn’t. The pain in his body is real, he’s well aware of that, but outside of his mind the forms of Geralt and the sorceress flicker together, weaving in and out of one another so fluidly that he doesn’t know where one ends and the other begins. The questions directed at him come in a myriad of voices – Geralt’s softer tones that he remembers well after he had stupidly gotten hurt on a hunt and his leg needed to be stitched, the sorceress’ iron tone demanding answers, and the harsher sounds of Geralt practically shouting in the same tone of voice that he’d used on the mountaintop.

Jaskier just wants it to end.

He’s not going to end it by answering, oh no, he may have lost most of his coherency but there’s enough of it left beating against the wrongness in his mind that he knows never to betray Geralt, nor Cirilla. He won’t. He’ll defend them to his dying breath, which he’s been hoping for more and more desperately. At this point, it would be a mercy.

The pain continues, and Geralt is there, intertwined with the sorceress as together they wreak havoc on Jaskier’s body for what feels like an eternity.

There’s a loud bang followed by a curse and suddenly he can see the mage clearly, her smooth skin and grey robes standing out even as his vision swims and he blinks blearily, trying to clear it. He can just about make out the crease in her brow before the image flickers again, replaced by a sneering Geralt looking down at him.

“Just in case,” Geralt says, and then all of the pain from before vanishes like an afterthought as his chest rips open, ribs cracking and heart beating so loudly he can hear it even over his agonised scream.

Time flares up and his breathing speeds along with it, before suddenly all concept of reality escapes him save for the feeling of his chest in tatters, his lungs collapsing in on themselves even as he readies for the end, the seconds dragging on and his vision clearing just enough to see the empty room, to notice as the door swings open with a crash, to catch sight of the all-too familiar yellow eyes before everything goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who skipped the scene I mentioned at the beginning: one of the guards outside Jaskier's cell is still barely alive and makes a rude quip about Jaskier, so Geralt kills him.  
> Anyways, I hope everyone liked this chapter - it was a lot of angst! I promise things will get better from here on - at least in the physical pain sense - there are still a few issues that will crop up that a lot of you guessed at in the comments already!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: some description of injuries, but nothing too graphic.

“G’r’lt.”

Before he fully notices what he’s doing, Geralt has crossed the room in two strides, his sword clattering to the ground and the noise echoing throughout the cell. Vesemir would have had an aneurism if he’d been there to witness it, but he’s not, and there’s nothing that Geralt thinks would be able to stop him from moving to Jaskier’s side.

Blue eyes blink blearily up at him, and a weight seems to fall from his chest as he shakily brings his hands up to cup Jaskier’s face between them. “Jas,” he breathes, and he doesn’t care if the world were ending around them right now, before he’s here, Jaskier’s safe, he got to him –

Jaskier flinches, a weak, half-hearted thing as Geralt’s hands make contact with his face.

For the first time, Geralt looks, _really_ looks, and the weight he’d been feeling returns tenfold as his eyes rove over his bard’s face. There are no cuts where his hands had been – he draws them back to check – but there are mottled bruises covering almost every inch of his face and it’s not a huge leap to accept that touching Jaskier in any capacity would be painful. His hands stay where they are, hovering just above Jaskier’s skin, and the bard blinks at him again, eyes wide and filled with fear. Geralt wants to reach out, wants to reassure him that everything is fine, but before he can there’s a harsh coughing sound and Jaskier’s eyes roll back in his head.

Startled, Geralt moves his arms to catch him, but there’s no other movement than the drooping of his head. It’s then that Geralt notices the chains, thick and pulled taut, looped through a pair of cuffs on Jaskier’s wrists, holding him aloft. There are matching cuffs on Jaskier’s ankles, not doing much – his legs too weak to hold him up – but it’s the collar around his throat that causes Geralt to clench his jaw.

“Get out of the way,” Yennefer says suddenly, elbowing into his space. He has no choice but to be pushed back a little – not too far, he’s not going to abandon Jaskier’s side anytime soon – but enough that she can squeeze in between and run an assessing eye over the bard’s form. There’s a tic in her jaw that Geralt thinks he was never supposed to see as her fingers trail over the collar, only to yank them back as if burned.

“What is it?” he asks, eyeing the dark metal with distaste. There are runes carved in it, he can see now, but not any that he can recognise. 

Yennefer reaches out a hand to him. “Give me your silver sword,” she demands, and he does, without hesitation, watching as she presses it against the collar and it falls open with a loud snap. “It’s enchanted,” she explains, moving to Jaskier’s legs to remove the cuffs around his ankles. “These, too. I’m going to do his wrists, next, make sure you catch him. It looks like his right shoulder is dislocated.”

It is, Geralt can tell just by looking at it, and moves forward to gather Jaskier into his arms as the pressure on his wrists is released. It’s hard to find a spot to put his hands that’s not touching a broken bone or open wound, so he resorts to carefully lifting Jaskier into his arms, trying not to jostle him too much, keeping his gaze directed to where Jaskier’s chest – flayed open, by the looks of it – is still rising and falling almost imperceptibly, and far too slowly and shallowly to be healthy.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Yennefer tuck his silver sword under her arm, stooping to collect the discarded collar and cuffs. She uses the hem of her skirt to do it, clearly not wanting to touch the things, and her nose wrinkles in distaste as she examines them. “I need to look at these later,” she says, her violet eyes narrowed as she takes one last look before turning to peer at Jaskier. “But right now, we need to get him out of here. I don’t like the look of…”

She trails off, but Geralt understands, trying to watch only for Jaskier’s breathing, ears perked towards the faint beating of his heart. It’s _everything_. She doesn’t like the look of everything, and for once when it comes to Jaskier, neither does he.

Instead, he waits as Yennefer waves her hand to open a portal, cool air coming through and hitting his skin as he allows himself to be guided through. Jaskier’s skin – what little of it is unmarred enough to be visible – is already paler than usual, and there are tremors running through his body that Geralt does not want to think about in relation to the cold mountain air.

The portal shuts with a crack, and they find themselves in the middle of a corridor in Kaer Morhen, the doors leading to various bedrooms around them. At the far end of the hall, Eskel skids into view, and his eyes go wide at the sight.

“They’re back!” he yells, and Geralt knows the others will hear him, regardless of where they are. He watches as Eskel runs over, raking his eyes down Jaskier’s form and then hardening. “In here,” he says, turning on his heel and leading them to a room a few doors down.

Geralt knows it well, remembers the nights he spent in it during the Trials when he was too sick to move, remembers lying on the bed in the centre where he places Jaskier down now.

Rushed footsteps sound outside the door, and the next thing he hears is a number of gasps, one considerably higher-pitched than the others. He turns, eyes locking on Ciri as she remains frozen in the doorway, figure trembling and dwarfed by the three Witchers around her. “Jaskier,” she breathes out, and the word is enough to snap the others into action, Vesemir immediately marching over and rolling up his sleeves as he reaches to examine the bard’s body. Geralt is pushed aside as Eskel sweeps in front of him, a roll of gauze already in his hands.

There’s a harsh choking sound, and Geralt’s gaze shoots back to where Jaskier is shaking on the bed, spittle frothing between his lips as his lungs try and expand against the broken ribs.

“Vesemir, get water to drain his chest wound,” Yennefer snaps, eyes flashing as she looks around the room. “Eskel, Coën, you can stay, I need you to hold him down. The rest of you: _out!_ ”

For a minute, Geralt wants to disobey her, wants to refuse to leave while Jaskier may not even survive, wants to stay just in case anything happens, wants to stay so he can keep his promise to himself to never leave Jaskier’s side. He can’t, however, not when Lambert takes his arm to lead him out, not when Ciri looks up at him with eyes that are far too young to see the horrors she has, eyes that brim with tears and that remind him he has another duty, to her. 

He lets himself be led away, lets himself be drawn to the main hall and seated on a bench, a mug of ale set on the table in front of him even as Ciri crawls into his lap and wraps her arms around his shoulders. They sit there, the three of them, in numb silence, even Lambert quiet for once. None of them move to speak, none of them make any motion to get up. Geralt knows that their minds are as preoccupied as he is, and he tightens his hold on Ciri at the thought, risks a glance over to where his younger brother sits stoically opposite him. 

Time falls away as they sit and wait, for news, for anything – Lambert only getting up once to stoke the fire as the natural light fades away, bringing the full darkness of night. Eventually, Coën lumbers into the room, stopping short and sighing when all three of them turn their eyes to him expectantly.

“Come along, cub,” he calls, reaching a hand out to Ciri. “Let’s get you to bed, it’s well past midnight.”

So that’s what time it is. Geralt blinks at the realisation that it’s been over six hours since they arrived back in Kaer Morhen, Lambert grunting a bit as he notices the same.

“Will Jaskier be alright?” Ciri asks, voice small and breathy as she shifts to sit up straight on Geralt’s lap.

Coën’s lips thin. “The others are doing what they can,” he says, carefully side-stepping the question and adding another brick of worry to the pile resting on Geralt’s heart. “But there won’t be any news for a while, now. Best get some sleep and wait until morning when we can learn more.”

Ciri sniffles and reaches to hug Geralt, which he returns, probably tighter than normal, before slipping away to follow Coën to her room. 

Lambert gets up twice more to stoke the fire and add more wood, Coën wandering back sometime after the first one. He locks eyes with Geralt and doesn’t say anything, but it’s enough to reassure him that Ciri is alright, for now. Sometime later Eskel shuffles in, looking weary, but doesn’t speak as he sits at Geralt’s side heavily and drains the ale that’s gone untouched and is likely too warm to be truly palatable.

Finally, Vesemir comes into the hall and takes a seat next to Lambert, Yennefer entering a few seconds later.

She looks tired – exhausted, worn out and depleted – and Geralt sees the blood marring her skirt and the stains on her normally spotless hands even as he stares at her beseechingly.

“I’ve done what I can,” she says simply, and her expression is shuttered. “I’ll need to examine him again more thoroughly later, but I don’t have the energy to do anything else tonight. I can’t even bring myself to tell you what all they did to him.” Her mask breaks and she looks briefly sick, and Geralt can tell he’s not the only one who sobers even further – if possible – at the mere thought of what they had in store. “His chest has been put back together, and that was the most important thing,” Yennefer continues. “If he makes it to morning, he’ll have a good chance of surviving.” She opens her mouth, then hesitates.

“Spit it out, witch,” Lambert grumbles.

Yennefer shoots him a glare. “I… I also found evidence of magical interference,” she starts, and Geralt abruptly remembers the enchanted cuffs and collar. “I need to wait until he’s awake to find out what, exactly, it was, but again – it will have to wait.” Another pause. “What I can tell you is that he’s not fully human. There’s no way he would have survived anywhere near this long if he was.”

Silence returns to the hall, now more stunned than before.

“Not… fully human?” Geralt repeats, the weights in his chest knocked aside by the sheer impossibility of that blow. “What does that mean?”

Yennefer sighs, reaching a hand up to pinch the bridge of her nose in exasperation. “Geralt, I know you’re the densest man on the continent,” she begins, sounding pained. “But surely even _you_ noticed that your trusty companion never aged a day, despite travelling with you for well over two decades.”

Geralt shifts uncomfortably, looking down at his hands and refusing to answer.

“What is he?” Vesemir asks the question no one else dares to, when the silence stretches on for too long. 

“I’m not entirely sure,” Yennefer admits, shoulders slumping slightly. “I’d wager on him being part fey. He certainly does enjoy luxury and obnoxiously loud colours far more than anyone I’ve ever met.”

Lambert grunts. “Music thing, too.”

Yennefer nods in agreement, all of them lapsing back into silence. Geralt makes no move to disturb it, staring at his hands and forcibly willing them not to tremble. It’s good, what Yennefer is saying, it means Jaskier has a better chance at a full recovery, at healing and living to be far older than anyone had anticipated. On the other hand…

On the other hand, Geralt can’t get the image out of his head – of Jaskier, broken and bloody, unconscious in his arms with a gaping hole in his chest. He already knows he’s not going to be sleeping for weeks while the memory of that sight still haunts him.

“I’ll watch him,” he says gruffly, pushing himself up out of his chair to make the seemingly eternal trek through the keep to Jaskier’s room. The others say nothing, but Eskel moves to get out of his chair and follow. Geralt doesn’t dare look at him, giving his head a brief shake as he leaves the room, not wanting to turn back to see them watching him with pity in their eyes. It’s not him they should be pitying, he should be the one they’re resentful towards, judging, for allowing a human – well, apparently not so much as he’d assumed – bard to get caught up in his messes and almost tortured to death.

At Jaskier’s door, he pauses, taking a breath to steel himself. He knows what he’s going to find, knows that there’s a strong likelihood of his last remaining strand of composure snapping the second he walks inside. It’s inevitable, he’s been fighting it for days, and he’s more than aware that Yennefer couldn’t possibly heal everything in the scant hours she’d been in there.

Closing his eyes, he looks upwards briefly, before squaring his shoulders and opening the door, not daring to look at the bed and its occupant until the room is closed off again and he’s shuffled forwards to be right by the side.

What he sees is somehow _worse_ than what they’d found in the Nilfgaardian cell. 

There, at least, he’d been able to hold Jaskier, feel his heartbeat under his palm, watch as Yennefer worked her magic to help. Now, though, there’s not familiar spark, no light dancing in clear blue eyes, no musical noises coming from the bard’s mouth.

Geralt collapses onto the chair by the side of the bed, eyes roving over Jaskier’s – still, too still – figure, before coming to rest on his face, painted black and blue and with superficial cuts that are likely to scar across his chin, his right cheekbone, and above his brow. The blanket lifts just barely with Jaskier’s breathing, and Geralt finds himself staring at the motion, unconsciously counting each movement in his head as some form of assurance that Jaskier is still alive. He can’t even reach out, to touch, to hold his hand – the fingers splinted and wrapped in bleached-clean bandages.

He chokes back a sob, and, in the isolation of the sickroom, lets himself fall apart.

* * *

There are hands cupping his face, yellow eyes staring down at him, and a voice that sounds so much like Geralt it’s almost realistic enough to convince him. Then, the memories surge forward, of all the times Geralt’s likeness has reached out gently and then transitioned smoothly into suffocating him as harshly as possible. There’s no way his Witcher is truly here – after all, his vision is still hazy and he’s half-sure he can see swishing dark skirts. The sorceress, then.

He wrenches his head away before the vision can touch him again and the collar sears against his neck, sending him spiraling back down to the blessed darkness where everything seems to fade away.

When he wakes, just like every time before, it takes a while for him to be able to feel his body.

The pain returns in increments, washing over his form and he squeezes his eyes shut tighter to brace for the oncoming maelstrom of torment, which –

– doesn’t ever come.

There’s a dull throbbing everywhere, Jaskier can definitely feel it, but the sharp stings and burning sensations have faded away into nothingness. His body aches, and there are patches where his skin is tingling and seems to be almost pulled together, but there are no open wounds that practically hiss against the cool air, no stabbing lances of pain bursting through his shoulders and wrists as they struggle to hold him upright against the chains.

Only, there are no chains.

He frowns, trying to focus on his wrists, and when he can’t feel the cuffs around those – his ankles and neck. Nothing. The cuffs are gone, the collar removed. He almost doesn’t want to believe it; he can’t even comprehend why they would have been taken off in the first place. Lull him into a false sense of security, perhaps? The mage had seemed hell-bent on breaking him, had cast visions into his head of Geralt arriving and being kind and gentle before the pain returned and it was Geralt – melding with the mage – applying it. 

If he’s not being held up by the chains, he must be somewhere. It’s true he had been too out of it to fully comprehend the state his body was in down to the last detail, but he was certain his legs were in no condition to support his weight. There was just no way.

There must be something else, then, and even though he feels almost like he’s floating he can just about make out the texture of fabric against his skin, loose and unrestricting and pressed into his back far more firmly than anywhere else, though still soft and molded to his shape. A bed, then. Maybe he’d been so far gone that they decided to give him a brief respite so they can continue later without breaking him with no answers.

He almost snorts, at that. Jaskier is sure they must know by now that he’ll die before telling them anything.

Oh, that’s a thought, actually – is he dead? Vaguely, he can remember the feeling of his chest getting ripped open, remembers the loud cracking noise his ribs that were not already broken had made, the pan so fierce he’d thought his heart had been forcibly removed from its cavity. Being dead would be the perfect explanation for the softness and the floating sensation.

Only – and he isn’t an expert at these things, despite what his poetry may claim – he’s fairly certain there isn’t supposed to be any pain in the afterlife. It’s nowhere near the sheer agony of the levels that it had been, granted, but it’s definitely still there, under the surface (and a little bit on it, as well), still aching away. It’s definitely been dulled down, in some spots more than others, but it’s not gone fully.

So. Back to the being lulled into a false sense of security theory.

It’s the only fathomable option, he knows, and he may as well enjoy it while it lasts. All too soon, seconds, minutes, hours if he’s lucky – the sorceress will return and drag him away again. 

He does want to know where he is, though. It can’t be his cell, unless they’ve specifically brought a mattress in, so it must be elsewhere in whatever stronghold they’re keeping him in. The throbbing is manageable enough that he can try and ignore it – not completely, it is still too much for that – but so he can open his eyes to have a look around.

At first, all he can see is a wooden ceiling, but as he moves his eyes he’s able to make out stone walls and bright light let in by a solitary window, washing out the room far more than the little fire in the massive hearth does. It’s so bright, and airy, that he briefly entertains the notion that maybe he’s not a prisoner anymore.

He turns his head slightly, wanting to see more of whatever room he’s supposedly in, and his heart sinks.

It’s Geralt.

Not Geralt in the way any of his visions had been, not standing tall and approaching carefully as if to encourage him with words such as no, this time is real, I promise – but with head hung and hands resting on his lap, not even reaching towards Jaskier. He looks… vulnerable, almost.

There’s no way it’s real, though, Jaskier is not too much of a hopeful idiot to even entertain the thought. Geralt isn’t here, wherever here is, he’s off with his Child of Surprise and likely shouting his thanks to all the gods that Jaskier has been taken off of his hands for good.

Well, not _shouting_ , the man is hardly verbose enough as it is – except on that fateful day on the mountain, it would seem. Alright, Jaskier concedes to himself. Maybe he _is_ shouting. It certainly seems like the only time he does it is when Jaskier’s fucked up his life, why not break it out to thank the gods for his absence?

He must have rustled the sheets, exhaled, something – because The-Thing-That-Isn’t-Geralt whips its head up so quickly Jaskier would almost be concerned it had hurt itself – if it was Geralt, at least. As it is, the thing looks at him, almost unbelieving, before slowly rising to its feet and leaning over the bed, so close that Jaskier could count the individual lashes on the thing’s eyelids.

Some part of Jaskier wants to think that it’s not the correct amount, not the number that the real Geralt has, but he’d never gotten close enough to find out, so he wouldn’t even be able to tell.

Instead, he stares at the thing, and the thing stares back, eyes as golden as ever.

Jaskier isn’t sure how long it’s been, he doesn’t know whether the thing has also copied Geralt’s ability to hear his heartbeat and apparently smell his fear, but something must come across because the thing inhales sharply, pupils dilating almost imperceptibly as its hands come up towards Jaskier’s face in a rendition of all those times it’s been done as a reassurance right before more pain kicks in. Another sign that this can’t be real, the mage is definitely just lulling him into a false sense of security.

The hands move closer, and Jaskier flinches back.

The-Thing-That-Isn’t-Geralt reels back as if struck, eyes wide and seeming almost hurt as they scour the length of Jaskier’s body, finally settling on his face and widening even more. A breath of air escapes his lungs in one choked-out gasp before he turns, stumbling towards the door and rushing out, the sound of retreating footsteps echoing down the corridor.

_Huh?_

Jaskier blinks at the doorway, the wood still propped ajar, as the healthy dose of fear simmers down and gets mostly replaced by a wave of confusion.

That’s new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More pain for you, folks! Now, at least, we've had most of the physical hurt - next we get all of the mental hurt to come! Thank you to everyone who comments and leaves kudos, I hope this was to your liking!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: non-graphic discussion of injuries.

He’s contemplating getting up when she arrives. 

It’s harder than anticipated – though Jaskier quickly realises what he had expected fell very short of even the remotest capabilities of his body’s surviving functions. Evidently being chained from a ceiling and getting tortured is not conducive to one’s physical health, and he is a little mad at himself for not thinking of it sooner. What with waking up in a different room and the startling and confusing apparition of Geralt, his mind has been thrown through a loop.

Eventually, he manages to shift his legs over to the edge of the bed, his feet hanging off of the sheets as he reaches to put an arm – bandaged and splinted, he notices suddenly – over his torso for some semblance of support when he tries to get up. Everything has bandages, he can see them now, bleached white and flecked with drops of blood over certain wounds. The covers on the bed conceal anything from the waist down, but he’s slowly regaining an understanding of the sensation of being able to feel his legs again, and there’s a tightness around them that speaks of their own wrappings.

One leg is completely over the edge, his foot brushing the freezing stones of the floor, when the voice speaks up from the doorway.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Immediately he startles back, a wave of nausea rising up at the sudden movement and it takes a few long seconds of eyes squeezed shut and carefully controlled breathing until Jaskier can blink towards the door, freezing as soon as he sees who’s there.

It can’t be, there’s no way – _somehow_ , the sorceress must have found out who he was travelling with, must have decided that using Geralt as a torture method wasn’t working, decided that someone else would be better suited to the task. The vision watches him carefully, and the expression is decidedly neutral but with a distinct lack of any sort of malice or spite. It’s tentative, even, and the very thought makes Jaskier bark out a hysteric laugh.

“Very clever,” he taunts. They must have given him something to drink, he realises with a start. His throat is still hoarse, and it hurts like hell, but he can actually get full words out this time. “Y’know, for half a second, I thought that I’d gotten out of here. This one is clever. How did you find out I know her?”

Purple eyes meet his, and there’s a layer of confusion there that irritates Jaskier to no end.

“Ugh, don’t try and keep up this act,” he insists, trying to wave his hand but not managing to lift it even a few inches before the pain flares back up and he winces. If there’s anything good that will come out of this brief reprieve, it’s that he can resort to his initial plan to annoy his captors. It had, he chose to believe, kept them from focusing on finding Geralt – and he’s learned several times in his life that sometimes the distraction is the most important part of any operation. He could keep their attention on him, at least, give Geralt a chance to get Cirilla to somewhere safe. “I know you’re not really her. So, come on then. What’s it going to be today? Knives?” He tilts his head, considering, electing to ignore the pull on the skin of his neck that feels like a scab has been torn open. “No, I think you’ll go for more of the hand-wavy magical pain. Fits, I suppose, what with the whole stealing-Yennefer’s-appearance thing. I always secretly suspected she wanted to dissect me.”

The fake Yennefer’s eyes harden at his words, sneering in a way that he somehow knows isn’t actually meant for him. “That fucking _bitch_ ,” it spits, and the scent of burning briefly wafts through the room before the thing seems to shake itself, looking back at Jaskier and softening its glare, though its mouth remains set in a steely line. “When I get my hands on her… see if I… absolute _cow_ …” the thing is muttering, and Jaskier only catches snatches of the words as it huffs and bends to open a chest he hadn’t even noticed was there, straightening up with a collection of fresh strips of linen in its arms.

Jaskier swallows, his amusement and fear merging back into the confusion that had reigned over him when the fake Geralt had fled the room. There’s a spark in his chest that almost spells hope, looking up at Yennefer’s face, but he’s quick to quell it when the thing walks rapidly to his bedside. He flinches back, and it stops, blinking at him.

“Right,” it sighs, and its shoulders straighten. “This is going to make my job a whole lot harder. Believe it or not, little bard, I’m here to help.”

“No thank you,” Jaskier says immediately, shaking his head and scooting back on the bed as much as he can given his current state – which is to say, not very far. The thing keeps coming toward him, and he tries to move further, but before he can there’s a vice-like grip around his wrist, holding him close.

His throat seizes at the feeling and the pain is an afterthought to the sheer panic of being held, being kept in place and _restrained_. Faintly he can feel the tugging on various patches of his skin, the warm flush of blood telling him he must have reopened some wounds, his ribs screaming in protest as he flails and tries to remove himself from the thing’s grasp. He wants to leave, wants it off – he knows he’s a prisoner but _fuck_ , he’s tired and he just wants it all to end. The thing yanks him forward, grunting at the weak blow Jaskier manages to land on its shoulder, and its other hand snaps forward to rest on his forehead.

The struggling ceases as his mind feels the rush of _calm_ sweeping through.

It’s like a warm summer day, all of a sudden, a sense of comfort in the air and a light breeze whipping around his very being as he’s encapsulated in a place of safety that he’s not experienced in the slightest in however-many days or weeks or months he’d been trapped in that cell. It’s peaceful, reassuring, and nothing at all like what the mage had forced into his head.

When he comes back out of it, he’s back in the unfamiliar room, curled in a defensive position on the sheets of the bed, but the feeling of calm remains, fuzzy and careful. He blinks, taking in his surroundings in a new light, staring at the figure in front of him.

Yennefer sends him a weak smirk. “Glad you’re not at full strength, bard,” she teases, breathing out a sigh and withdrawing her hands from Jaskier’s wrist and forehead, brushing her dark hair out of her face. “Though, you’re scrawny enough I doubt you’d be able to do any sort of real damage anyhow.”

Jaskier squawks indignantly, the response to those words automatic in fueling his reaction. “I’ll have you know I’ve been in more bar fights than you can count,” he retorts irritably. But before he gets the chance to say more another bout of nausea sweeps through him and he heaves, arms giving out and sending him crashing back down to the bed.

A bucket gets thrust under his mouth just in time to catch the vomit, and then Yennefer is there, smoothing back his hair in a way that seems so wholly unlike her he almost starts to panic that this is just another illusion, he’s back in the cell and the mage is coming and – 

“You’re safe,” Yennefer tells him, and the rush of calm and comfort returns, originating from her fingers resting on his brow. He wants to believe her, and he thinks he does, there’s a faint trace to the feeling in his mind that’s so different to the mage’s, so unrelentingly Yennefer that he thinks it might be true.

Once the sickness subsides, he makes a weak shove to get the bucket out of his face, but his arms don’t seem to want to move from their positions sprawled at his sides. “Where am I?” he asks hoarsely, staring up at her like she holds the answers to everything. He doesn’t want to look away, not yet, doesn’t want to lose the sense of tranquility that is the only thing saving him from another wave of panic. Yennefer watches him carefully, then mutters something under her breath and moves her hand away from his brow. He starts to protest, wants her to keep whatever magic she’s working there, but when a second passes and the feeling hasn’t gone away, he frowns in confusion.

“Calming spell,” Yennefer explains, the corner of her mouth tilting up just a little. “It’ll last for a while, don’t worry. What won’t last is you, now that you’ve torn all your stitches open. Gods, do you have to be so contrary when I’ve single-handedly saved your life?”

All Jaskier can do is watch helplessly as she bends to retrieve the fallen bandages.

“You’re in Kaer Morhen, by the way,” she continues, peeling back the tangled sheet and moving Jaskier’s limbs to her liking, lips thinning as her eyes trace over his wounds. “We found you and brought you back here. Pretty sure it’s the only place Nilfgaard can’t reach at this point.”

Jaskier tries to push himself up onto his elbows so he can see what she’s doing by his legs, a sharp pull making him yelp in surprise as he shoots her a glare that she resolutely ignores.

“I’ve closed up the life-threatening ones as much as possible,” Yennefer explains, the bright silver of a needle flashing in the light streaming through the window. “But I need to stitch these ones closed. I’m pretty drained, no thanks to you, and I don’t want to risk you dying of blood loss right after I put all that effort into saving your pathetic ass.”

“Since when do you know how to stitch up wounds?” Jaskier demands incredulously, staring at the needle in Yennefer’s hand, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. Though, in retrospect, he wouldn’t put it past her to have just magically conjured up whatever supplies she needs.

“I got a bit of a crash course last night,” she says dryly, looking pointedly at the ruined and discarded stitches from a gash down the side of his thigh. “Eskel taught me. Lovely man, by the way, if a touch gentle for my tastes. Very offended that we ran from him back in Vizima. He was the one who found you missing, you know, practically had to drag Geralt here. He stayed here with Ciri while Geralt and I went to find you.”

Jaskier stares, barely flinching as the threaded needle pierces his skin, carefully drawn back and forth over the wound to pull the two sides together. He can’t tell if Yennefer somehow numbed the area, or if he’s just still in enough pain to be unable to differentiate, but aside from the unfamiliar tugging sensation there’s not much to worry about, his mind instead of trying to make sense of all the information she’s just unloaded onto his, rushing through his ears in a cascade.

The calming spell must still be working, because Jaskier is pretty sure he’d be panicking if it weren’t. He’s in Kaer Morhen, fabled home of the Witchers, and Geralt was the one to break him out of that cell and bring him here. 

Oh, gods. 

_Geralt_.

There’s a part of him that grows nauseous again at the realisation, and Yennefer shoots him a sharp look that he carefully ignores as a moderate wave of horror creeps into his chest, taking away from the stabbing pains he can feel through the bandages and settling there, not quite as heavy as it would have without the magic in his mind. Instead, the feeling is slightly dissociated – abstract in the way he knows he’s going to spiral over later.

Geralt is here, in Kaer Morhen, was in this very room waiting by Jaskier’s bedside for him to wake, and the first thing he did was flinch away from his saviour.

“Jaskier?” comes Yennefer’s voice, and he can’t bring himself to look at her, gaze fixed on a spot on the far wall. Vaguely, he realises that she must have finished with the wound on his leg, her next few words suddenly much louder in his ears as if she’s come closer. “Alright, you’re starting to freak me out,” she says, the sound barely registering through the haze he’s in. “I was going to wait, but well…”

Her hand is on his forehead again, and all of a sudden he’s back in the cell.

The calming spell does nothing to take away from the avalanche of fear that seeps into his bones at the sight of the room, cold stone walls harsh and unforgiving, the feeling of chains around his wrists and ankles and neck, a searing pain coursing through his veins and knives slicing at his skin, fists and fingernails leaving marks wherever they go.

“He’s in love with the mutant,” he hears the sorceress say, a smirk edging her words, and then he’s there – Geralt, but not Geralt as Jaskier ever knew him – a cruel manipulation of his mind taking the form of the person he holds most dear in all the world, caressing him, holding him, _hurting_ him – 

Yennefer’s hand jerks back and it’s like being dipped into a hot bath after being out in the snow. Warmth spread through him and the return of the calming influence is a shock to his system, leaving him wide-eyed and gasping from breath as he struggles to come down from the panic, the terror, the pain of being back in the place that’s sure to haunt his every waking nightmare for however long he has left to live.

“Fuck,” comes Yennefer’s voice, but it’s far away, faint, and he can’t find the energy to grasp onto it and pull himself out of the hole in his mind. “Jaskier, can you hear me? I have to - I’m going to finish stitching up your wounds,” he hears, and some small part of him thinks it’s logical, efficient – finishing up with what she needs to do while he’s unable to move a single muscle. 

It almost feels like he is back in the cell, with no coherent sense of time, only vague sensations of movement around him and sharp flares of pain that mercifully are exponentially smaller than he’d felt while he was there, strung up like a pig in a butcher’s shop at the mage’s mercy.

Finally, after what feels like a lifetime, the sharp flares of pain settle down and with their absence his presence of mind returns, the ceiling above swimming out of focus before sharpening in his vision. The room faintly smells of copper, but there’s a sort of flowery perfume he recognises as Yennefer’s signature scent, and when he manages to summon the energy to turn his head, she’s still there, hands scrubbed clean of his blood and violet eyes already locked onto him.

“Jaskier,” she starts, and there’s a touch of concern to her voice that he really doesn’t like.

“No,” he says, not wanting to hear whatever it is.

Her eyes flash in a way that he’s much more familiar with. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice,” she snaps, even though he doesn’t know what precisely she’s referring to. “They all saw you. If you think I can hold out against five Witchers and a spoiled princess, I appreciate your faith in me, but no. They have a right to know what happened.” She pauses, and shifts almost uncomfortably. “ _Especially_ Geralt.”

Jaskier manages to shake his head. “No.”

“Suck it up,” Yennefer hisses. “I saw what they did to you. I saw what that bitch forced into your mind. You’re going to be haunted by this, Jaskier, they need to know what’s going on. We already have one troublesome screamer in our midst.”

He’s not entirely sure what that means, but he ignores the ache in his neck to turn his head to look at her. “I said no. None of them have to know anything.” He frowns, deciding to repeat her own words back to her. “Especially Geralt. He tossed me aside, if you’ll recall. I don’t see how he deserves to know a single thing.”

“Save me from the infantile squabbles of men,” Yennefer mutters, her mouth set in a determined line. “Fuck it. Jaskier, I’m not asking permission. I’m going to tell them the basics, at the absolute least. Whether or not Geralt deserves to hear specific details is up to you.”

Jaskier stares at her a moment, processing. “Fine,” he spits, gritting his teeth. “ _Fine_. What else have I to lose? According to him I have no dignity anyways. Might as well make him _really_ hate me.”

“Grow up,” Yennefer bites back. “You didn’t have to deal with him while you were gone. I didn’t either, for the most part, but I’ve spoken to the others. I know him, and I know how much this has affected him. That _bitch_ Fringilla tore into your mind and stole your secrets. I won’t tell him what I saw, but I’m not going to help either of you patch things up. I’m done meddling in your affairs.”

“I never asked for your help!” Jaskier reminds her, feeling angry tears prick at the corners of his eyes, ones that sting and are too small to mean he’s fully hydrated, but more than he’s felt in a long time. It’s almost too much, the sensation, and he finds he hates having them as a display of weakness as Yennefer pushes herself up off of her chair to glare at him accusingly.

Her gaze is scathing as she looks down at him. “I’ll remember that for next time,” she says lowly. “See if I care if you find yourself in Nilfgaard’s filthy hands. You can return to them right now if you want.”

“I –“ Jaskier cuts himself off, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. “ _Fuck_ , Yen. I was so ready to just have it all be _over_. I suppose Destiny really has it out for me, huh?”

Yennefer inhales slowly, and her smile is brittle, but her eyes shine with a hint of softness. “Destiny has fucked us all over,” she agrees, shaking her head a little. There’s a pause, and Jaskier watches as she swallows. “I still hate you.”

It’s enough. It’s _their_ thing, the one he’d decided on back before any of this started, and it’s easy to grin even with the tears still lingering at the corners of his eyes. “I hate you too.” 

They stare at each other for a moment, neither quite wanting to delve any further into the unfamiliar emotional standstill they’ve found themselves in, but Destiny must have at least some sort of guilty feeling because their salvation comes via a knock on the lintel of the door, both of them looking over in unison.

In the doorway stands a little girl, with hair so blonde Jaskier recognises the shade immediately. Her face and eyes, once he takes them in, only serve to bolster his memories, although he will admit the hastily-stitched up ensemble of clothing the girl is wearing is a far cry from what he last saw her in. Even so, Cirilla is the spitting image of her mother, and a few years older than he remembers seeing her last.

“Ciri,” Yennefer calls, beckoning her forward.

“Yennefer,” Ciri greets, coming up to stand beside her before looking down at Jaskier with a mixture of guilt and curiosity swirling in the depths of her green eyes. “Hello.”  
Jaskier’s lips curve into a smile, a faint sting reminding him of their dryness, chapped so far he’s sure he split the skin with the motion, but unable to care. “Hello, Princess.”

“Just Ciri,” the girl tells him imperiously, still watching him anxiously, her eyes following the motion of his head when he nods before trailing down to take in the rest of his body, her breath hitching slightly as she spots the layers of bandages, the splints and the bruises and cuts that are visible on what little bare skin there is to see. There’s a glistening in her eyes that matches what he had in his own mere moments before, and between one second and the next she’s rushed to the side of the bed, arms wrapped around her middle as she stares down at him, a tear dripping down the side of her cheek. “This is my fault,” she says hoarsely.

Jaskier blinks, then immediately frowns. “Oh, Ciri, _no_ ,” he tells her, gathering as much strength as he can into his words. “Listen to me, Princess, this is _not_ your fault, okay? I simply won’t have you thinking that way. It was Nilfgaard, just them, and you are not in any way to blame.”

“I am, though,” Ciri sniffles, and Jaskier finds himself willing to risk Yennefer’s ire by tearing his stitches again if it means he can sit up and envelop this child in a hug.

“You’re _not_ ,” he repeats, and resigns himself to reaching out a hand. Ciri takes it gingerly, her fingers wrapping carefully around the splint and bandages. “You’re not. If you say that again, I’ll be forced to stand up to insist upon it, and that would undo all of the hard work that has been done to put me back together. Is that what you want?”

Ciri sniffles again, but shakes her head.

“Alright.” Jaskier nods, trying to squeeze her hand as best as he can. “Okay. Now that that’s settled, I want you to forget about it. It’s done, it’s over, and the lovely Yennefer here has graciously informed me that I will live, much to her displeasure.”

“Call me lovely again and I’ll take back that diagnosis,” Yennefer tells him, and Ciri lets out a wet giggle at that.

Jaskier puts on his best offended face, carefully tugging Ciri closer. “Between you and me, Princess, she’s very happy that I’m alright,” he says in a stage whisper, flashing Yennefer a grin and feeling elated when she rolls her eyes. “I’m her secret favourite, you see. But you mustn’t tell anyone because they’ll all get very jealous.”

Ciri grins at him, and the tears are slowly drying in her cheeks. “She told me that I’m her favourite.”

“Treachery!” Jaskier gasps, shooting Yennefer a glare and turning his head away, but being careful not to withdraw his hand from Ciri’s grasp. “I’ve barely been gone at all and she’s already replaced me.” The mood seems to sour at his words and he catches on immediately, frowning and looking past Ciri. “What?”

“Over a week,” Yennefer tells him, watching him with something that if he didn’t know better, he’d was is guilt. “Almost two. We didn’t even know if you’d still be alive.”

Jaskier swallows, and even through the bandages he can feel the way Ciri’s fingers have tightened around his own. “But I was,” he tells them both, looking at them each in turn. It feels wrong, almost, to be the one reassuring them – but somehow he knows that it’s necessary, and if there’s one thing he’s always been, it’s willing to sacrifice any comfort or habit for the sake of his friends. “I’m alive, I’m here. That’s the important thing for now.”

Yennefer smiles at him, a little sadly. “For now,” she repeats, and Jaskier suddenly recalls her words. _You’re going to be haunted by this_. He wonders how long it will take for the _real_ nightmares to start. He frowns at the thought, watching as Yennefer seems to shake herself. “Well, my work here is done,” she announces. “I’m going to leave before he starts talking my ear off, or – Gods forbid – starts singing. Ciri, I’d escape early if I were you.”

Ciri giggles. “I think I’ll stay a while,” she says softly, and Jaskier is well aware there’s some sort of private discussion going on, because after a moment Yennefer’s shoulders drop a little in relief and she nods, glancing back at Jaskier. He knows what that look means, it’s a reminder of what she’s about to do, what she’s about to got tell the others. What she’s about to tell Geralt.

It’s easier not to nod or shake his head, simply watch as she sighs and slips from the room before turning his attention back to Ciri. Looking at her, the spitting image of her mother, tear tracks drying on her cheeks and a smile that’s still somehow bright and cheerful, he realises that he would gladly go through it all again a thousand times over just to keep her safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Sorry this one took a while, I've been a bit distracted but I finally got new hearing aids and I found out that so many things make noise!! Leaves and brushing your hair and fizzy drinks!!!  
> Anyways, I didn't manage to get Geralt's perspective into this chapter, but never fear, he'll be back with angst and pining in the next one!


	13. Chapter 13

The only thing Geralt really wants to do is hide, but he knows that sooner or later Yennefer will emerge from Jaskier’s room and find him. It’s easier, then, to sit in the main hall and wait – he knows her well enough to expect copious amounts irritation directed at him if she can’t locate him straight away. He sits, then, in the hall, staring at the bleak wooden boards of the table, listening as his brothers slowly trickle in, on time despite the late hour they’d all finally managed to get to bed. None of them speak to him, and he prefers it that way, tuning out the low murmur of their conversation as he sits and stews in his own self-loathing and pitiable silence, as Jaskier used to put it.

He doesn’t want to think about Jaskier, bandaged and hurt and just barely conscious and flinching away from Geralt as if Geralt would ever hurt him – 

Had he any less control over his body, he would wince or shudder himself at the thought. The fact remains that he has hurt Jaskier, numerous times, possibly irreparably. Hells, he’d punched the man – barely a man, back then, fresh-faced and newly out of Oxenfurt – within the first hour of knowing him.

It’s shameful to even think about how else he’d treated him.

He knows, too, that Jaskier hadn’t deserved it. Had never deserved it, actually, for all his complaints and incessant mutterings and frankly overwhelming amounts of singing, Jaskier had never been anything but good to Geralt, a sentiment he can’t quite return truthfully. And yes, he’d not allowed Jaskier to be killed by any of the monsters they came across, nor had he permitted any cuckolded husbands to get close enough to teach the bard a lesson with their fists (save one time, though Jaskier had it under control, and the offended squawk he’d let out once he realised Geralt wasn’t rushing to his aid was extremely amusing). He’d not let the bard get hurt, he knows that, but one thing Geralt never truly considered was the emotional toll.

There had been flashes of guilt, after snapping at Jaskier to shut up and seeing an actual wounded look in his eye, or emerging from the ruins of the mayor’s house in Rinde to find Jaskier watching him with betrayal painted on his face, but those never lasted. He’d been so caught up in his own refusal to accept or handle emotions that he had forgotten that Jaskier always felt deeply, always had, and Geralt had steadily been piling on verbal abuse over the years.

It wasn’t all serious, and he knows Jaskier understood that too, knows that their bickering and squabbling had been a norm since the beginning and that it would likely never change. The realisation that he actually enjoyed their verbal sparring was a surprise, to be sure, but one he found he didn’t mind. He _liked_ it.

He doesn’t want Jaskier to be hurt ever again. He wants to be able to tease like old times, to gently make fun of him and be ribbed back, wants to take back all the words he’d said, but he doesn’t know _how_. He still doesn’t fully understand why that day, on the mountaintop, was the breaking point – why those words were the ones that stuck in both of their minds. He’d said harsh things before, perhaps not so many in so little time, but he can count at least three other occasions where his words had been equal to those. He’d even almost killed Jaskier, for fuck’s sake, had cursed him with a Djinn wish and watched as his throat swelled and blood poured from his lips, had ignored his pleas to leave and rushed into a house to fuck a woman who had both healed and tired to murder Jaskier, had taken over Geralt’s own mind for her own machinations.

It’s somehow worse knowing that he’d hurt the bard without doing any of the actual damage himself. Something about knowing that he could have prevented it, had he not pushed Jaskier away, had not forced his only real friend to leave only to later be confronted by his own emotions and a crippling sense of guilt and fear.

Gods, when he’d burst into that cell and seen Jaskier – after the initial feeling of relief at seeing his bard was still alive – Geralt had almost been sick at the sight. And Witchers _don’t_ get sick.

He’s still practically swimming in the depths of his own self-loathing when Yennefer enters, hair slightly mussed on one side, which tells Geralt it probably happened fairly recently. If she had known that her immaculate appearance was in any way flawed, she wouldn’t have shown her face until she had decided she was ready. He doesn’t quite know what to make of it – last he saw, Jaskier had no strength to even really move, so he’s not sure what it means.

 _Overthinking_. He’s overthinking, latching onto any small detail to try and drag himself up out of the internal cavern he’s found himself in.

“Good morning,” Yennefer says lightly, then smirks as all five Witchers shoot her a glare.

“Not helpful, witch,” Vesemir grumbles, leaning back in his chair and fixing her with a look. “Tell us what you know.”

“Oh, very well,” Yennefer agrees, sitting down on one of the benches that runs the length of the table, arranging her skirts to her liking despite the still ever-present glares that she decidedly ignores. Geralt is just about to give in to his irritation and impatience and demand answers when she finally decides to speak. “I’m sure you saw the extent of his injuries,” she begins slowly. “I’m pleased to say that his chest wound has been mostly repaired by my magic, and his other wounds are all still splinted and bandaged and stitched to my satisfaction.” She pauses, rolling her eyes. “No thanks to him. The bardling is stronger than I’d expected someone to be after enduring two weeks of torture, though I suppose it was the panic and the adrenaline. All the ripped stitches have been replaced and they’re good for the time being. Ciri is keeping him company now, though I suspect he’ll be asleep very quickly.”

Geralt tenses at the reminder of the length of time Jaskier had been in the cell, remembering the fear in his bard’s eyes when he awoke. It was not a good look.

“The _physical_ injuries I can continue to help heal,” Yennefer continues, and Geralt feels his shoulders tense almost impossibly more at the implication that there are _other_ injuries to the ones she’s just rattled off in a long list. “I can give him more healing draughts later, and as my chaos replenishes, I’ll use that too. For now, he just needs to let his muscles adjust before I can do anything else. There are still spasms and seizing I’d prefer to have lessened before I try and heal him any more.”

Down the table, Vesemir nods his head gravely, the movement barely noticed by Geralt with his mind still occupied by the emphasis on _physical injuries_. “That makes a certain amount of sense,” he agrees, and it’s as close as the old Witcher usually comes to giving a compliment. “He was chained up in that dungeon for a long time, for a human. I would be surprised if he didn’t have any sort of cramping.”

“Precisely.” Yennefer shifts, and almost looks nervous for a second before carefully schooling her expression. “In other news, I managed to figure out what the magical interference that I felt last night was. Fucking _Fringilla_.” She spits out the last word. “I’m going to say this in the bluntest way I can, because it will hurt either way. That bitch tore into his mind and used your likeness, Geralt, to hurt him.”

Silence. 

“He didn’t know where he was or what was happening. All he knew is that he was being hurt, and to his eyes, it looked like you were the one doing it.”

Geralt can’t breathe. There’s a ringing in his ears as the words click into place in his mind, the nauseous feeling returning full force with every letter.

“Is he…” he manages to get out, remembering the flinch when he’d reached out to touch his bard.

“He knows he’s safe, now,” Yennefer replies, her voice and eyes ever so slightly softer than before. “I’ve put a calming spell on him. I’m no expert in mental afflictions, but I can tell you right now that this is going to affect him for a long time. It wasn’t just that it was you, Geralt, it was that his mind was literally ripped open to try and get information out of him.”

“But they didn’t,” Eskel clarifies from down the table, the sound quieter than usual over the rushing in Geralt’s ears.

Yennefer shakes her head. “No,” she confirms. “They didn't. I’m not entirely sure how, but I would chalk it up to his heritage. All I can tell you – what he’s given me permission to share – are those facts. I won’t break his confidence and tell you _what exactly_ all they did to him. He’ll have to tell you that himself.”

“You should talk to him,” comes Ciri’s voice, and with some difficulty, Geralt manages to turn his head to look towards the doorway as she enters the hall. “He’s going to sleep, now, I think he’s worn out,” she tells Yennefer, then turns back to Geralt. “He won’t say so, but he’s scared and hurting. You should talk to him, it would help.”

Geralt swallows. “I can’t,” he gets out, voice barely more than a rasp. His whole world has been turned upside down by the onslaught of Yennefer’s words, how is talking supposed to help against having the sanctity of one’s own mind ripped away from them? How is he ever supposed to help in any way that matters?

“You’re an idiot,” Ciri tells him bluntly, and Geralt just stares at her, choosing to ignore the hastily muffled snort Lambert lets out at his expense. “You’re an idiot. He’s hurt, and scared, and I don’t know what you did to fuck up –”

“Language,” Geralt reminds her, mostly because he’s still in too much shock at her straightforwardness to say anything else.

“– but you need to fix it and help him,” she continues, crossing her arms over her chest. “I feel guilty too, you know, considering Nilfgaard is looking for me, and all, but I’m not the one hiding from a man who can’t even sit up without help like a coward. So. Idiot.”

Geralt gapes at her.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Yennefer chuckles, nodding approvingly at Ciri, who’s looking rather proud of herself despite the fierce glare directed at Geralt. “I said I wouldn’t get involved in this, Gods know I have no desire to be a part of your affairs ever again, but for some reason, I’ve come to actually care for the little bird. My tastes must have worsened, but regardless, you need to fix it.”

“And _how_ do you expect me to do that?” Geralt demands, gritting his teeth, very aware that he’s being watched by no less than six people. “He flinched before I even said a word. You told us what that mage did to him, Yen, and now you expect me to – what, go in and hope for the best? Just fucking pray he doesn’t have a damn panic attack?”

“Talk to him,” Lambert suggests – and since when has Lambert been the one to try and give any sort of helpful advice. “I don’t want to have to deal with your shit all winter. Just fucking talk, it’s not that hard.”

Next to him, Eskel smiles slightly. “This _is_ Geralt we’re talking about,” he jokes, staring back when Geralt shoots him a glare, before sobering. “They’re right. I know you prefer actions, Geralt, but your bard uses his words. I think if you try to use his language, you’ll find things move much more smoothly. And you do need to talk to him.”

Eskel always has known him the best, they all know it, but right now Geralt can’t find it in him to listen to any of the words the others are saying. They don’t know the whole situation – well, perhaps Jaskier had told Yennefer – but with what he’s just heard there’s no guarantee Jaskier will even look at him again without the acrid smell of fear tinging his being, the honey wine scent Geralt has come to cherish gone forever. He can’t stay, can’t listen to them try and give him false hope when he knows there is none.

Ignoring Ciri’s glare and Yennefer’s bitter expression, not even glancing at any of his brothers, he gets up from the bench and heads to the doors, shoulders tense and hands clenched into fists by his sides as he leaves the room.

Geralt has no real plans for where he’s heading, but his feet lead him and soon enough he finds himself staring at the wood of Jaskier’s door. When he listens, he can here the faint sounds of Jaskier’s breathing, of his heartbeat, even through the solid wood. It’s a comforting sound, and the rhythmic pace of it tells him clear as day that Jaskier is truly deep asleep, and no wonder.

He can’t go in, then. Ciri had said he was going to rest, the best thing he can do for now is let Jaskier recover and recuperate. The others are wrong, whatever they choose to believe, there’s no way talking will help, no way that Jaskier will ever forgive him. There is nothing words can do to erase the emotional and physical pains of the past. That doesn’t mean he can’t at least try to redeem himself, if not to Jaskier directly, he realises, staring at the grain of the door. He owes – and loves – his (no, not his, not anymore – and likely not ever) bard more than anyone will ever know, and the least he can do is keep him safe.

He nods to himself. That, he can do.

* * *

Of all the Witchers who have come by to visit him in the past week, the one he _actually_ wants to see never shows up.

Oh, sure, the others are wonderful – Jaskier already has plans for an entirely new four dozen songs – and they come to talk and keep him company and tell him their stories and ask for his. He has a soft spot for Vesemir, who is gruff but ever so kind with Ciri and who Jaskier is sure has a myriad of tales hidden up his sleeves; and Eskel, who despite his imposing appearance accepts Jaskier’s apology for avoiding him in Vizima with a hearty laugh and a light clap on his shoulder, sitting down to tell him stories of hunts and the Witcher lifestyle and even, on one memorable occasion, what Geralt was like as a child. The fact that Geralt himself is conspicuously absent is carefully glossed over by all parties.

“His head is so far up his own fucking ass he can probably see clearly through his damn vocal cords,” Lambert tells him in colourful detail, and the sheer inventiveness of that sentence makes Jaskier blink.

“I suppose that’s why he rarely speaks,” he returns once he’s fully processed what had been said.

Lambert watches him for a moment, then nods sharply and settles into the chair by the side of the bed, pulling out a knife and a whetstone. “You’re alright, bard,” he says gruffly. Eskel assures him later that it’s high praise.

Ciri comes too, at least once a day, and oftentimes will drag Coën in with her to show off some new technique she’s learnt in training. Why, exactly, a thirteen-year-old princess is being trained as a Witcher (and as a sorceress, if Yennefer is to be believed) is beyond him, but she’s always so excited that he can’t begrudge her it. She’s the granddaughter of the Lioness, he supposes, and he’s now heard the evidence late at night that she had also inherited her mother’s power. His heart aches in his chest at the thought of this little girl having to grow so hardened, but when she chatters on about weaponry, he can’t help but smile at the way her face lights up.

Surprisingly, Yennefer is the most frequent visitor, even after all the draughts and spells she’s given him have finished and there’s really nothing left for Jaskier to do except heal on his own. Mostly, she comes to rant about some idiotic thing one of the Witchers had said or done, or alternatively – on days where Jaskier suspects she’s just bored – to bitch with him and trade insults. It’s nice, actually.

“You really need to sort out your mess with Geralt.”

Except when she talks about Geralt, it would seem.

“I’m serious,” she continues, swirling a glass of wine that is far too ornate to be from Kaer Morhen (what he’s seen of it, and from what he knows about Witchers, at least – unless Vesemir secretly has a penchant for decorated goblets) and that he’s quite jealous of, actually. He’s not allowed any form of alcohol, and despite how much he’d asked and wheedled, so far no one has given in and brought him so much as an ale. Lambert is probably the most likely to do it, so he’s already decided to double down on his efforts to the younger Witcher. He’s also well aware that Yennefer is only drinking in front of him to be annoying.

“Darling Yen, you know I hate you, and I can tell you right now that nothing would make me happier than to have a nice little conversation with dear Geralt,” Jaskier informs her, fiddling with the splint on his right hand. “I promise I won’t even blow up until at least two minutes in. Unfortunately, I cannot move, and the fool of a Witcher refuses to come visit me here.”

“Save your flowery words for someone who cares,” Yennefer scoffs. “Besides, I think you should blow up at him. He deserves it. Ciri called him a coward, you know.”

Footsteps sound out from the door, and Jaskier glances over to see the girl in question stride in. “I did,” she says, confirming Yennefer’s words. “I’m not talking to him. He’s an idiot.”

Yennefer sighs in exasperation. “Did it again last night, did he?” 

Ciri nods, and Jaskier looks between the two of them, brow furrowed slightly in the way he’s learnt to do so that the bruises and cuts on his face don’t pull too badly. “Did what again last night?” he inquires, watching as Ciri frowns and Yennefer chuckles in amusement.

“Your _dear Geralt_ has taken up residence in front of your door every night since we brought you here,” Yennefer tells him, and if he could move from the pile of pillows he’s propped up on, Jaskier would reel back from the shock. “Seems to be convinced he can protect you from anything else, poor thing.” She pauses, smirking at Jaskier’s obvious surprise. “Ciri, did you need something?”

“Vesemir wanted to see you,” Ciri responds easily, then glances to the bed. “So I came to keep Jaskier company while you’re away.”

“An excellent thought,” Yennefer agrees, rising from her chair with seamless grace, swallowing the last few drops of her wine before waving a hand and vanishing the goblet with a flash. That answers the question he had about his origins, then. “I shall be off. Make sure he doesn’t strain anything now that he’s finally starting to heal up properly.”

Ciri sits on the edge of the bed and nods sincerely. “I won’t,” she assures the sorceress, and then Yennefer is sweeping elegantly out of the room, its two remaining occupants staring after her until the sound of her heels clicking on the stone floor fades away into nothingness. Ciri shifts a little. “I’m not, you know.”

Jaskier looks back over. “Not what?”

“Talking to him,” she explains. “He won’t talk to you, so until he does, I’m not talking to him. He might be able to help with your nightmares, and don’t deny it, I’ve heard them,” she says sharply once she notices his wince. “Yen says he might be able to help, might take away from that other mage’s magic. So, I’m not talking to him.”

“Ciri, darling,” Jaskier starts, feeling a surge of affection for the girl perched on the side of his bed, with her already-calloused fingertips (and oh, he’s definitely going to have a word with Geralt – once they’re actually able to have a conversation again). “Although he might not know it, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him. You can’t just not talk to him like this. Generally, I would approve of your methods, Gods know the man needs to learn a lesson –” he winks at her, “– but I have a feeling this may hurt him more. What happened between me and Geralt is something we have to sort out ourselves, princess. It’ll do no good to you either. He’s only trying to protect you.”

“I don’t need protection,” Ciri protests, though Jaskier suspects it’s more out of stubbornness and less out of further anger at Geralt, her expression somewhat softened by his words.

He chuckles. “I’m sure you don’t, your highness,” he teases, grinning at the glare she sends him.

“Stop that!” she tells him, rolling her eyes and reaching out as if to shove him playfully, only to jerk her hand back the second she realises what she’s doing, looking horrified. 

“Shan’t.” Jaskier smiles at her, deliberately skating over her misstep and watching as the worried lines around her eyes smooth out when he doesn’t make any sort of remark. “Now, is there a reason you’re here by my sickbed and not, say, training?”

Ciri giggles lightly, settling more firmly onto the bed and getting ready to regale him with excuses that make Jaskier proud to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry this took so long to upload!! I was busy packing and now I'm finally moved back into my flat, so hopefully I won't be too busy in future so I can get the last two chapters up. There's a lot of emotional angst in this one, and there will be in the next one too! Regardless, hopefully you enjoy it!


	14. Chapter 14

“You’re a thorn in my side, and I’ll be glad to be rid of you,” Yennefer greets him late one afternoon, almost two and a half weeks since he’d woken up, sweeping into his room in a flurry of dark skirts.

Jaskier doesn’t bat an eye at her harsh words, carefully not looking up at her and turning a page in his book. “And here I was under the impression you liked playing nursemaid,” he quips back easily. “Why, if nothing else, your exceedingly practical sense of style and charming bedside manner convinced me.” He doesn’t have to see her face to know what expression she’s wearing, her withering glare long since committed to memory.

“One day, little bard, I’ll grow tired of your sharp tongue and cut it out,” Yennefer snipes back.

“Promises, promises,” Jaskier tuts. “I’m disappointed, that’s hardly the creative threat I’m used to from you, Yen. Are you feeling alright? A little under the weather, perhaps?”

“Only now that I’ve seen you,” she responds smoothly. “Although I’m afraid I’ll have to suffer your presence a little longer. I’ve brought Eskel with me to help you down to supper.”

He looks up at that, spotting Eskel lingering just outside the doorway, hands clasped behind his back as he waits patiently. Truly, Jaskier will never understand how such giants of men manage to get around so silently all the time – though, he reconsiders, they’re likely trained for it. Part of their mandatory training, or some such. Even Lambert has snuck up on him, and they’ve all taken to being slightly louder on their approach to his room so as to not undo all of Yennefer’s hard work into ensuring his survival by giving him a heart attack.

It’s then that the rest of her words catch up to him, and his gaze snaps back to the witch, who’s watching him with a smug smirk dancing on her lips. “Help me down to supper?” he repeats, a little dazedly, and if he hadn’t been watching for it, he would never have noticed the slight softening in her eyes.

“Yes,” she sighs, and her aloof façade is as convincing as ever. “I’d say you’re healed enough to make the considerable journey. Besides, you can already walk – well, I say _walk_ , but I mean _hobble_ – the length of this room, and I know for a fact that you got drunk not two nights ago.”

Jaskier files away that information for later, deciding that sometime tomorrow he’ll track down Lambert, the traitor, and give him a piece of his mind about what constitutes keeping a secret.

“All in all, I’d say it’s time,” Yennefer continues, watching him carefully. “Gods know I need an intelligent conversationalist to keep me sane. Ciri tries, sweet thing, but even she is no match for the sheer bullheadedness of men.”

“I take it you’ve forgotten that I too am a man,” Jaskier replies, keeping his voice light as he sets his book to the side, scared to let any sort of waver into his tone that could conceivably tell Yennefer bringing him down already is not a good idea. “But I’m pleased to hear you find me intelligent. Only took several years – will the next compliment be quicker in coming, do you think?”

“I’d merely assumed otherwise, based on all that frippery you wear,” Yennefer taunts him coolly, and from the doorway, Eskel snorts, pointedly looking away from them both.

Jaskier glares at him, shoving at the covers over his legs and ignoring the faint ache in his abdomen in favour of focusing on the excitement of getting to leave his room. “You’re one to talk,” he grumbles back, and he knows it’s not an impressive comeback, he really doesn’t need to see her triumphant grin to know it. Thankfully, though, she seems to have had her fill of their verbal sparring – at least temporarily – and simply waits as Jaskier struggles to sit on the edge of his bed, feet hanging down to brush against the cold stones of the floor.

Wordlessly, Yennefer kicks his boots over, and Jaskier leans forward to retrieve them, gritting his teeth at the pressure it puts on his ribs. Neither of his two spectators comment, and he’s grateful for that, at least, even as he fumbles with the laces and takes far to long to slip into one, let alone both of them. It’s slow going, and part of him is distantly aware there’s nothing to be ashamed off, not after what he went through, but mostly he’s just embarrassed as the seconds crawl by before he’s finally finished with his task.

His face is still a little warm when he sits back, bracing his hands on the edge of the bed to push himself up. This part, at least, has gotten a little easier in the past few days, as he’s been allowed to get out of bed and move around, not only to go to the privy or have a sponge bath, but to actually take a few steps. He’s not been permitted out of his room, yet – confined inside like a naughty child while his wounds heal – but it seems like that’s about to change.

“Ready to go?” Yennefer asks him once he’s upright, standing only slightly shakily, his arms extended a tiny bit from his sides for balance. At his nod, she gives him a brief once-over. “Good. I’ll see you downstairs.” She sweeps out of the room just as dramatically as she had entered, and Jaskier automatically steps forward to follow her, Eskel swiftly moving into place beside him for if he needs support.

He’s finally going to be out of the room, he realises, nearing the door. He’ll be able to see Kaer Morhen – or a bit of it, anyway, and he certainly has plans to see the rest as soon as possible – and he’ll be downstairs to eat his supper with everyone else, not confined to his room with just one person to keep him company, trading shifts like he’s a child that needs minding, instead of the fully-functioning adult he is.

Well, not _fully_ -functioning, not yet. He’d like to be able to do everything by himself before he calls himself that.

At least this is a step closer, he knows, and for all of Yennefer’s teasing about wanting to be rid of him, he knows it will be a welcome break for them both when neither has to tend to the other, breaking up the routine of their recent acquaintance. Now, though, the excitement is due to seeing everyone together, and he puts a hand out against the lintel of the door to steady himself as he walks across the threshold.

And oh gods, _Geralt_ will be there, won’t he, just waiting for Jaskier to -

“You and the sorceress seem to get on,” Eskel comments once they’re out into the hall, Yennefer’s skirts swishing around the corner as she walks ahead in a much quicker pace.

Jaskier snorts, his nerves settling for a moment. “Trust me, it hasn’t always been like this,” he tells him, glad for the distraction. “There was a time she nearly castrated me, not five seconds after I had the displeasure of speaking to her for the first time.”

Eskel rumbles out a laugh. “That sounds about right.”

“How dare you!” Jaskier snaps, mouth falling open as a variety of insulted noises tumble out, his anxiety all but forgotten at the slight. “I’ll have you know that I am eagerly sought-after company in a variety of courts, thank you very much. I thought you were supposed to be the nice one. I suppose I’ll have to delegate that role to Coën, now.”

“So long as it’s not Lambert.”

“Gods no. Although, he did bring me that lovely ale…”

Eskel shakes his head in amusement, reaching out and placing his hands under Jaskier’s arms once they reach a flight of stairs, carefully supporting him as they descend the first couple steps at a snail’s pace. “More than just ale, I think,” he chuckles. “There was a suspicious gap in the barrels in the kitchen the next morning. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“I’ve not left my room until just now, so I wouldn’t have the slightest idea,” Jaskier informs him haughtily, voice strained as he grits his teeth at the near-constant tugging at his not-yet-fully-healed wounds the stairs have produced. “If Lambert so happened to relocate one of said barrels, you’ll have to take it up with him, not me.”

“Hmm.” Eskel sounds so much like Geralt at that moment that Jaskier has to blink, stumbling over his next step and nearly crashing to the floor if steady hands hadn’t tightened their hold, keeping him upright. Unfortunately, the noise does remind him what exactly he’s heading into, and Eskel’s next words are only half-heard as he concentrates on stepping down to the even floor at the bottom of the stairs and studiously ignoring the fact that he’s about to see Geralt for the first time in over two weeks. 

He’d gone longer without seeing the Witcher, of course, he’d spent the first eighteen years of his life not even knowing the man, and then after that, there were weeks and months and even a whole year once spent apart, and, more recently, the couple years after that dreadful day atop the mountain. Now, though, it almost feels as if there’s a strange buzz surrounding this meeting, his nerves lighting up in both anticipation and apprehension. He doesn’t want to flinch away from Geralt again, not after the disastrous result last time, but for that to even have an effect he’s going to have to be near Geralt, who has been hellbent on avoiding him of late.

Or not, he thinks, remembering Ciri and Yennefer’s words on his nighttime guard. He’d watched, after they said that, watched the crack under his door for the stationary shadows of Geralt’s boots to appear as he’d arrived, night after night, to stand silently and wait. Each time, Jaskier had wanted to call out, ask him inside, but time and time again his voice had failed him.

Now, though, he swallows at the sight of two heavy doors at the end of the hallway, swung wide open to let the aroma of hearty stew and the sounds of people talking to drift through, lower rumbling tones of the Witcher’s voices interspersed with Yennefer’s unimpressed voice and Ciri’s higher one. He pauses, just for a second, wary of the fact that a shadow outside his door late at night and a tangible person are two very different things.

Eskel stops half a step in front of him, turning back with a touch of concern in his eyes. “Alright there?” he asks, clearing running his eyes over the places bandages still remain, covered by a blue doublet Jaskier had been delighted to find Yennefer kept safe. “Is it too much?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Jaskier hastens to reassure him, patting Eskel’s arm where he can reach it, still steadying him at the shoulder. “Just a bit winded, is all. I guess I’ll have to get used to stairs again.”

He grins brightly up at his escort, and if Eskel can hear the lie – which he undoubtedly can – he makes no mention of it, nodding curtly and glancing back towards the doors to the main hall. “Almost there,” he remarks, and waits for another second before stepping back next to Jaskier. “Ready to go?”

Jaskier’s grin slips slightly before he musters his strength, straightening up as much as he can. “As I’ll ever be,” he declares and puts all of his concentration into putting one foot in front of the other, determined not to embarrass himself by falling flat on his face as soon as he steps into the room. Eskel’s hands fall away, still hovering nearby, but not actually holding him up, and he’s glad for the sliver of additional dignity as he finally crosses the threshold and enters the hall.

The room goes quiet, and a quick glance in Yennefer’s direction confirms his suspicions that she hadn’t actually told any of the others he’d be joining them, rolling his eyes at the smirk she sends his way before looking around further, stopping in his tracks when familiar yellow eyes lock onto his.

Geralt stares at him, mouth slightly open in a way that it never is, hands clenched around the spoon in his hand, half raised to his mouth. It’s a comical sight – or rather, it _would_ be – if Jaskier didn’t find himself equally as incapable of moving, held prisoner by the weight of that gaze. It’s daunting, and he’s sure Geralt can smell his apprehension from across the room, face almost slack and unguarded as he simply stares.

There’s a cheerful whoop from Ciri and the moment is broken, Geralt snapping his mouth shut with an audible click, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he sharply looks down to gaze at his bowl instead, contemplating the contents even as Jaskier swallows hard and drags his eyes over to where Ciri is rushing towards him, face bright and excited at his presence. His smile turns a little less brittle as she approaches, her hair somehow even wilder than it had been when she had visited him that morning, all but falling out of the braids he’d put in. 

“You’re here!” she exclaims happily, and reaches to tug him gently towards the tables, Eskel following a few paces behind just in case Jaskier manages to collapse on his way over.

“Ah, well, I’m afraid I’d gotten tired of staring at the same four walls,” Jaskier jokes, risking a glance over at Geralt as he gingerly sits down on one of the benches, wincing not only from the slight pain it evokes but because the Witcher is resolutely looking anywhere but at him. He turns back to Ciri instead of focusing on that disheartening fact. “Besides, now I know I’m able to move around a lot better than I thought. It will be easier to escape Lambert this way.”

“Fuck off, bard,” Lambert snaps from across the table, and Jaskier sends him a wink as Ciri laughs.

A second later, there’s a bowl of stew thrust under his nose, a spoon sliding over the wooden surface right after. “Eat up,” Coën tells him, though his smile belies his gruff tone. “If you want to finally finish healing, you’ll need your strength.”

“I healed him perfectly well,” Yennefer informs him, sniffing and swirling her magicked-up goblet of wine. 

Jaskier raises an eyebrow. “Then why do I still hurt?”

“Eat your stew,” Yennefer orders, and he grins, ducking his head to comply. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Geralt’s head turning away quickly, as if scared to be caught looking. Jaskier sighs internally, lifting the spoon to his mouth to eat, trying to formulate some sort of plan. If Geralt won’t take the initiative, he’s just going to have to be the one who pushes – as always. He can only hope that this time he doesn’t push too far.

The rest of the meal continues in much the same way, trading banter between bites of food, washed down with weak ale that is definitely nowhere near the same strength as the stuff Lambert had brought him. Vesemir reminds them all of the chores that will need to be completed soon, prompting groans to arise from everyone, although Jaskier notices Geralt remains conspicuously silent amongst the chatter, sitting towards the end of the table, on the other side. Even Ciri, sitting next to him, seems to have decided he’s a lost cause for the time being.

All too soon, he’s finished his meal, and despite Yennefer’s insistence declines a second bowl. The food here is heartier than he had expected – though perhaps he should have, knowing how much Witchers can eat given the chance – and there’s a very faint tinge of nausea lining his stomach from the exertion of walking to the hall, as well as laughing and conversing with a whole group of people, minus one. It’s a bit more energy compared to the past few weeks, even if he knows he wouldn’t miss the opportunity to finally be out of that room. 

There is one thing, though, that he still needs to do, and he pushes his bowl back on the table, carefully turning on the bench so that his intentions are clear to the others.

“I can help you back to your room,” Eskel offers, shifting in his seat to look at him, and Jaskier flashes him a small smile before taking a deep breath, mind made up.

“No,” he says, calmly but firmly. “No, thank you, Eskel. It’s alright, someone else can help me up.” He breathes out, turning his head until his eyes fall on Geralt, well aware that all of the Witchers in the room can probably hear his heart speeding up as he hesitates just a split second before barrelling on. “Geralt?”

Finally, startled yellow eyes flicker up to meet his.

* * *

For almost a minute, Geralt can’t do anything but stare in disbelief, the same way he had when Jaskier had first entered, hale and whole and – well, not quite healthy, not yet, but definitely much better than before. Now, though, it’s not disbelief at his presence, but disbelief at the fact that Jaskier wants him to help him back to his room.

Him.

Not Eskel, who had brought him down, nor even Yennefer, with whom he’s apparently so close to now. _Him_.

It takes him a few more seconds to realise that Jaskier is still watching him expectantly, expression cool, and the rest of the room is looking on with bated breath. He can’t refuse, now, not with everyone waiting on his answer. He nods jerkily, pushing himself back on the bench too roughly in his shock, almost dislodging Ciri from her seat. Instead of seeming miffed, she smiles up at him encouragingly.

Alright then.

He moves around the side of the table, steps forcibly slow and breath carefully even, until he’s at Jaskier’s side, a few steps away, the same distance he’d seen Eskel at when Jaskier had walked over. He waits, feeling more trapped by the silence than he’s been in a while, as his – not his, _the_ – bard rises slowly and awkwardly from the bench, sending a fleeting smile to the others.

Geralt swallows, the goodbyes ringing shallowly in his ears as he cautiously follows Jaskier towards the doors, the bard’s steps a touch slower than they’d been upon entering, his shoulders tense not with pains and aches but with the same sort of dread Geralt can feel pooling in his stomach. It’s the same feeling he’d had when he’d been at the door to Jaskier’s cell, and the part of him that keeps clamouring on about emotions is blaring warning bells in his head, telling him that nothing good can come of this. There’s no way Jaskier wants him there for any pleasant reasons, and although he knows he needs to apologise, and deserves every ounce of fury Jaskier will direct at him, part of him wants to hold it off as long as possible.

He’d never been a coward until he met Jaskier.

There’s a moment on the stairs where the bard slips, and Geralt steps forward quickly to catch him, steadying him with firm hands that are decidedly not shaking on his sides, careful to heed the ribs he knows are still sore and aching. For his help, Jaskier flashes a hesitant smile, and Geralt is helpless to do anything the bard wants of him, hovering closer for the remainder of the steps until they’ve reached the top.

The silence is unnerving, especially when compared to the memories of Jaskier’s frequent incessant chatter, and Geralt has to grit his teeth against the onslaught of complicated emotions those memories bring up. They’re good ones, generally, but by now all lanced through with a bitter cut of regret. It’s even worse to think about how that regret will always remain.

By the time they’ve reached Jaskier’s door, the trip far longer and quieter than it should have been, the bard’s shoulders have tensed even further and there are faint lines of pain around his eyes, right by the crow’s feet that Yennefer had remarked upon right before the mountain, the ones that Geralt now knows come from smiling, not age. Part of him wants to reach out, to smooth away those pained lines, but touching Jaskier is a privilege he doesn’t have, and never appreciated when he did.

Jaskier pauses outside the door, one hand reaching out to support himself on the wall next to the handle as he turns to look at Geralt, expression unreadable. “Will you…” he starts, then stops, eyes darting away as he licks his lips nervously. “Will you come in?”

Geralt hesitates a fraction of a second, then nods, and Jaskier’s shoulders seem to slump a little in relief at his agreement. He still doesn’t know what to expect, but knows it’s probably better to get the pain over and done with, like the trainers used to tell them as children. Only this time he’s not sure it will ever be done with, but he may as well try.

At least it can’t get any worse, he tells himself, following Jaskier into the room and shutting the door behind them, keeping an eye on the bard as he makes his way slowly over to the bed, lowering himself to the edge with a grunt and leaning to remove his boots before he stops with a hiss of pain.

“Let me,” Geralt says before he fully knows what he’s doing, crossing the room in two strides to – oh, _gods_ – kneel at Jaskier’s feet, studiously avoiding the bard’s gaze as he starts working the laces open, sliding one boot off before moving to the other.

Jaskier sighs a little. “Thank you,” he says carefully. “It’s been a rather exciting evening. I’m glad to have been out of this room finally, but I suppose I should have expected to be worn out after.”

Geralt decidedly does not comment on what else Jaskier could be tired out from, knelt as he is at his feet, and instead quickly finishes removing the boots before standing up and taking a few steps back, the motion almost jarring compared to the slow, careful movements Jaskier makes to swing his legs up fully onto the bed. Against the wall, the fire cracks loudly, and a quick glance confirms it’s already been banked, likely done mid-afternoon. It will keep until morning, hopefully.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt blurts out, breaking the silence for what might have been the first time for the two of them, ever. Jaskier’s head whips up in surprise, halting in his motions to settle back amongst the cushions, and his blue eyes seem to pin Geralt in place with their shock, before softening slightly.

“It’s not your fault,” he says, and Geralt blinks, because yes, it is, his words had been harsh and he needs to apologise for them. “None of us could have known Nilfgaard would come after me,” Jaskier continues, and oh, Geralt understands they’re discussing two different things. “And besides, I had Yennefer with me, I should have been –”

“Not for… for that,” Geralt interrupts, the sharp words of _torture_ and _capture_ still too painful on his tongue to say. Jaskier frowns at him, and he hastens to correct himself. “Well, yes, also for that, but… hmm. For the mountain. I’m – I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said those things.”

Jaskier’s face clears. “No, you shouldn’t have,” he agrees, but there’s a hint of fondness in his tone that Geralt latches onto.

“I was not – I was wrong,” he continues, stumbling over his words, because as much as he hates this, he needs to say it. Needs the bard to hear it. “I was angry, and I lashed out at you instead of dealing with it appropriately. I was wrong, and I’m sorry.”

“Who are you and what have you done with my Witcher?” Jaskier asks, his voice a little tight, and Geralt’s brain shudders to a halt at _my Witcher_. The room is quiet, nothing but their breathing breaking the stillness, and it drags on for so long that Geralt is sure nothing is going to happen, neither of them is going to speak up, when Jaskier sighs, closing his eyes. “Thank you.”

Geralt stares at him.

Jaskier opens his eyes again, a small smile curling its way onto his lips, and then beckons Geralt forward. Blindly, Geralt goes, sitting down at the edge of the bed, so far on the edge that he’s barely sitting at all.

“Are we… are we okay?” Jaskier asks, and the fact that _he’s_ asking, when it should be Geralt, makes Geralt’s heart stutter in his chest for a second, before he manages to collect his wits about him.

“Yes,” he responds, and if his voice is rougher than it had been a moment ago, neither of them comment on it.

Jaskier smiles, looking almost as relieved as Geralt feels. “Oh, good,” he breathes, reaching out to grab Geralt’s hand in one of his, giving it a quick squeeze.

Almost unconsciously, Geralt squeezes back.

“Will you stay here tonight?” Jaskier asks, fingers still wrapped around Geralt’s hand, and he looks up to see those blue eyes trained hopefully on him, the honey wine smell of contentment lingering in the air. Geralt must look startled, because a hint of amusement dances on the bard’s lips. “Really, Geralt, I know you’ve been _standing guard_ outside my door. I’m sure you can protect me just as well from the inside, so you might as well be comfortable while doing it, hm?”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth tips upward at that, and he can’t help the small snort that escapes him.

Jaskier looks immensely satisfied with the results. “Lovely,” he comments, and there’s a hint of nerves still about him, but the honey wine scent spikes and Geralt chalks it up to the same nerves he’s having – they’re about to share a bed. Granted, it’s not in the full capacity he’d necessarily want to be sharing it for, but it is the closest they’ve been to the old them, years ago when coin was sparse and rooms in inns were small.

Instead of saying anything further, Jaskier leans back against the pillows, patting the space in the bed next to him. Geralt has to look away at the invitation, reluctantly pulling his hand out of the bard’s – _his_ , again, maybe? – grasp to reach down and tug off his boots, carefully not looking at Jaskier as he climbs onto the other side of the bed, ever so gently so as not to disturb any of the bard’s remaining injuries as he goes.

Once he’s settled, he turns his head to find Jaskier already watching him in amusement. “You really haven’t changed,” he notes, and Geralt frowns when he laughs. “Come on, come on. Get under the covers. You’re not going to get any rest if you’re lying on top of them, stiff as a plank.”

Almost reluctantly, because sharing the covers seems too intimate, Geralt shifts on the sheets until he’s below the blankets. It’s too hot for him, the heavy coverlets more numerous because of Jaskier’s condition, but there’s no way he's going to do anything to jeopardise this opportunity. He can brave discomfort for the sake of being close to Jaskier once more.

“That’s better,” Jaskier breathes, his voice barely a whisper. They’re not touching, not quite, but they’re definitely close and Geralt knows that if he moved even a little, their sides would be pressed up together. He’s fighting the temptation to do just that when Jaskier’s hand slips into his own, squeezing softly. “Good night,” he says, and goes to draw his hand away, but Geralt instinctively holds on.

Jaskier’s breath hitches, and Geralt is about to let go, when the bard lets out a contented sigh, squeezing his hand again. At that, Geralt squeezes back.

“Good night,” Jaskier says again, softer.

Geralt hums in response, and there’s enough light that Jaskier could see reasonably well, so it’s no surprise that Geralt finds himself able to clearly see the way the bard smiles as he closes his eyes.

It’s not everything Geralt wants from the bard, but if this is all he can have, he’ll take what’s given without complaint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG!!!! Honestly, there's no excuse, I am so sorry!! Hopefully this chapter makes up for my absence somewhat, and if not, you won't have to wait too long for the final one - it's already half-written so hopefully I'll have it up in the next few days, and definitely by the end of the week!! We got some small resolutions in this chapter, but I did promise Geralt/Jaskier, so you'll have to stick around to the finale for that. Anyways, as usual, I hope you enjoy it!!!


	15. Chapter 15

After that, it’s better.

It’s not perfect; it’s not the idyllic, easy life Geralt had foolishly dreamt up, but he’s well aware that will never be possible, not for any of them. Their lives have been veered too far off course by Destiny to have any real hope of peace.

By now Jaskier is able to walk on his own, unaided, and even though Yennefer loves to remind them that it’s barely been a month, it will still take time for him to heal completely, more often than not Jaskier can be seen disobeying her firm orders to rest. His endless energy is constantly spilling over, only aided and abetted by the likes of Ciri and Lambert.

Geralt can’t blame them, really, Jaskier had been cooped up in his room for two weeks before he’d been allowed down to supper that fateful evening, and even with his movements still slow and sometimes pained he’s bouncing off the walls during the day. Even Vesemir will smile indulgently as the bard in his bright silks chases after Ciri in the courtyard as part of whatever game the two of them have thought up. He reminds them all a bit more of their humanity – what’s left of it, at any rate – even though there’s not a pure human within the keep. They’ve all of them been touched by magic, or power, or fate.

No one has told Jaskier yet about his heritage. Geralt knows he should, both Yennefer and Vesemir have been on his back about it, but it’s never been the right time. Besides, there’s no way the bard doesn’t know that there’s at least _something_ different about him. For all his rigorous skincare regimes, he’s too intelligent not to catch the truth staring him in the face. If no one brings it up, it’s not a cause for fuss.

There’s a loud noise from the hall and Geralt looks up from his place at the table, a soft smile spreading over his lips as he watches Jaskier scramble into the room, Ciri not a moment behind. He knows they’ll pay for that later, when the adrenaline has worn off and it leaves behind aches and pains in not yet fully-healed wounds, and Geralt will be the one kept up half the night in concern as his bard whimpers next to him in the bed that’s somehow become _theirs_. Maybe not in the full capacity Geralt secretly wishes it was, but close enough for now. He’s almost sure that the honey wine smell of contentment radiates as strongly from him as it does from Jaskier, now.

Across from him, Lambert snorts. He’d given up his usual seat next to Geralt after that first evening where they’d all eaten together, ceding the place to Jaskier without any of his usual mocking. Geralt half-wonders if Eskel had put him up to it. Either way, it doesn’t matter, and he now gets to sit in between Ciri _and_ Jaskier, the two people most important to him. If it means having bruised shins from where Lambert kicks him, it’s worth it.

“You’ve gone soft,” his brother comments, a smirk on his lips that only widens when Geralt shoots him a scowl, tearing his eyes away from where his bard and Child Surprise are making their way over. “It’s pretty fucking painful. Is it his wounds holding you back from fucking him? By the smell of things, I don’t think he’d mind.”

“ _Lambert_ ,” Geralt growls out in warning, just as Ciri plops herself down next to him, Jaskier doing the same a little more gently on his other side.

“Ooh, are we mad at Lambert today?” he asks, shifting forward so his legs slot into the space Geralt automatically leaves for him. “What for? Is it his atrocious sense of fashion?”

Lambert sneers. “Fucking rich coming from a peacock. I dress fine.”

“Hm, no,” Jaskier says demurely, reaching for his tankard that Geralt had already filled in anticipation of his arrival, along with Ciri’s, although she only gets water. “Thank you, Geralt. Ciri, thank him.” He waits until Ciri parrots out the words before continuing. “In fact, the whole lot of you need to lighten up. The all-black works for Geralt, but I can’t say the same for the rest of you, I’m afraid. At least Eskel wears _some_ red.”

“All of you dress badly,” Yennefer sees fit to inform them, sweeping in with her dark skirts trailing behind her, a goblet of wine already in her hand as she makes her way over, not even glancing Coën’s way as she takes her seat next to him. “Granted, your materials are better than theirs, little bardling. But certainly not _nice_.”

Geralt snorts at Jaskier’s outraged expression, watching as the bard carefully morphs his features back into a politely affronted glare. 

“That’s quite alright, my dear Yennefer,” he sniffs, tugging on one of his sleeves. “I wouldn’t expect someone who hasn’t frequented high society to know what constitutes real fashion. How much lace do you think is appropriate for a single dress, again?”

Luckily, the door to the kitchens opens before the sniping can turn into a real catfight, and Vesemir and Eskel trail out with a pot of stew and couple of loaves of bread that they set down on the table without ceremony. 

“Alright, eat up,” Vesemir says curtly, taking his place, and Geralt ducks his head to hide his smile when he catches Jaskier rolling his eyes, instead glancing towards where Eskel is sitting next to Ciri, scooping out a portion of stew and handing it to her before getting his own. If he’d ever housed any doubts about bringing Ciri to Kaer Morhen, they’re all long since quashed, as he watches each of his brothers and his own father figure interact with her. They all adore her, that much is clear, and both Yennefer and Jaskier are completely wrapped around her little finger. Not that Geralt himself has a leg to stand on in that regard.

Not for the first time, Geralt takes a bite of his own food and feels a flash of guilt for his Child Surprise, eating next to him without complaint, but surely less than used to the coarse, plain food in the Witchers’ keep. She’s meant to be eating fruits and pastries and copious amounts of sweets and spiced cakes in her palace, not in the middle of a mountain range snowed in. 

A hand creeps onto his leg, just above his knee, and he knows the feel of those lute-calloused fingers as they squeeze reassuringly. Jaskier always seems to know what he’s feeling, has a good read on all of his tells, and if it had once been disconcerting, it now provides a sense of calm and comfort.

“What did you do in training today, princess?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt knows it’s partially for his own benefit, to hear how Ciri lights up at the mention of training, her excitement clear in her scent. It’s a good way to remind Geralt that for all of his shortcomings, there _are_ some things he can provide.

“Coën taught me how to hold a crossbow,” she responds rapidly, seeming to forget all about her food as she talks animatedly. “I’d learnt a little archery when I was younger, but not like this. It’s easier to point and fire than it is to aim with a bow. And you hold your arms like you do in a dance, so it wasn’t too difficult to pick up. Coën doesn’t know what a minuet is, though.”

“All men are imbeciles, Ciri darling,” Yennefer says serenely, pausing to take a sip from her wine. “The sooner you learn that, the better.”

Ciri laughs, and Geralt can’t quite find it in himself to disagree with the sentiment, a fierce surge of protectiveness washing over him. If none of this had happened, if Nilfgaard hadn’t come, she would likely still be getting similar lessons from her grandmother, and, well, with the scope of things now being over-cautious can’t hurt. He’d rather her not trust too easily than fall for a false sense of security and pay the price.

Further down the table, Coën raises an eyebrow. “You’re outnumbered here on that count, sorceress,” he rumbles, and Yennefer scoffs.

“I could take you all in my sleep,” she declares, and Geralt doesn’t doubt it. “Besides, I know for a fact that the only two people here raised in a somewhat civilised fashion will agree with me. Jaskier, help me teach Ciri this invaluable lesson.”

Jaskier grins. “Gladly,” he quips, leaning around Geralt to look at Ciri. “Princess, all men think only with their stomachs or their – uh, well…”

“Their cocks,” Ciri finishes succinctly, and the heads of all the adults swivel around to stare at her incredulously. “What?” she says innocently, with a face that reveals she knows _exactly_ what. “Eist used to make such jokes all the time. And I think you’re all forgetting who my grandmother was.”

“I assure you we’re not, cub,” Eskel hastens to say, recovering quicker than the rest.

“Words like that definitely show you’re well on your way to becoming a Witcher,” Jaskier teases, his hand below the table patting Geralt’s knee. “You’ll soon have a mouth as filthy as Lambert’s, here.”

Lambert shoots him a glare. “Cunt.”

Jaskier sighs. “I’m going to give you a lecture the next time you say something that crass in front of Ciri,” he warns, pointing his spoon at the Witcher before using it to scoop out another bite of stew from his bowl. “Some of us can at least try to be civilised.”

“My bet is that you’ll be giving that lecture within the hour,” Coën snorts.

“The hour?” Yennefer repeats incredulously. “I haven’t known him as long as you, but even I know it won’t take that long. Twenty minutes, at most.”

Coën looks at her in consideration. “Care to put money on it?”

The table erupts into friendly banter, bets being thrown around, but Geralt finds himself taking no interest in it, forcing himself to continue eating his supper and encouraging Ciri to do the same. Jaskier’s hand stays on his knee the entire time, squeezing occasionally, his fingers tracing little shapes in the leather of Geralt’s trousers. It’s soothing, and comforting, and when the hand falls away as they stand at the end of the meal he finds himself missing the warmth like a lost limb.

Instead, he clears away the bowls and helps Coën with the cleanup, and when they return to the hall, the others have congregated around the large fireplace at the end. Jaskier has retrieved his lute, apparently, and is sitting with Lambert and Ciri on the far side. A bitter pang of disappointment runs through Geralt but he swallows it carefully, taking a seat beside Yennefer instead.

She glances at him as he sits down, swirling the wine in her goblet in a way that’s designed to be particularly annoying, raising an eyebrow when he dares to give her a look. Across from them, Jaskier lets out a laugh, and his attention is drawn away again, almost predictably.

“Alright, your highness, I shall,” he’s saying, then turns to address the room at large, brandishing his lute. “Any requests?”

Geralt grunts before he can stop himself. “Play the one about the bruxa. It’s good.”

The look Jaskier gives him at that is so full of open adoration that Geralt can’t find himself looking away, gaze caught by those bright blue eyes and the beaming smile directed at him, fond and warm and so, so filling to the nearly-full void in Geralt’s chest. He’s vaguely aware that this has gone on too long, that the others are there and he can hear Ciri giggling, but he couldn’t care any less. He wants to bask in this moment forever and –

“Just fuck already,” Lambert groans, and Geralt inexplicably feels himself blush – as much as a Witcher _can_ blush, that is – Jaskier’s cheeks reddening up similarly even as he turns to Lambert to snap something about what _is_ and _isn’t_ appropriate language to use in the vicinity of a Cintran princess, completely disregarding the fact that Ciri has heard, and proven that she knows once already that evening, far worse.

As Jaskier rants at Lambert in his promised lecture, Geralt watches, enraptured by the red of the blush that he wishes he could have put there, in a different scenario, preferably, though one that does distinctly resemble Lambert’s crude suggestion. He _wants_ , has done for a while, and although he has so much of it in reach, he’s not been able to make the final leap to seize this one.

It would be easier, he knows, if he was sure of Jaskier’s feelings. He knows the bard had loved him, once, but it’s barely possible that he still does now. Not after… not after everything that has happened, what Great himself said when he hurled those thoughtless words atop the mountain. He’s apologised, and Jaskier appears to have accepted the apology, but that’s not the same thing as forgiveness. It’s not the same as being loved back.

Jaskier glances back at him in the middle of his tirade, almost shyly, a small smile on his face as he catches Geralt’s eye before turning back to continue berating Lambert.

All of a sudden, he understands.

It must show on his face, because Yennefer snorts. “Took you long enough,” comes her smug comment, and Geralt doesn’t even look at her as he rises, making his way towards Jaskier with single-minded focus.

“Guess we won’t be having any music tonight,” Eskel laughs, and Geralt ignores him, ignores Coën’s knowing look and Vesemir’s exasperated expression, barely glances towards where Ciri is leaning heavily on Yennefer under the weight of her laughter as he goes and grabs Jaskier by the arm – gently, not enough to hurt him, but enough to hold on – not even bothering to acknowledge Lambert’s self-satisfied smirk as he hauls Jaskier to his feet, pulling him towards the door.

Jaskier squawks in outrage at the sudden manhandling, shuffling along behind Geralt as he’s pulled towards the door, his lute still gripped in his hand, but it’s with no small amount of pleasure that Geralt realises the bard isn’t actually trying to fight him. That no matter the indignation Jaskier has about being dragged away he still trusts Geralt in what’s happening.

“You’re welcome!” Lambert calls, and Geralt flicks him off with his free hand, dragging Jaskier out the hall despite the bard’s affronted spluttering, not stopping until they’re reached the door of their room, pressing Jaskier up against it, leaning in to go to slot their mouths together, before pulling back and breathing deeply, and then…

Pausing.

It has to be true, though, he’s sure of what he smelt, sure now that the honey wine scent isn’t just contentment, that it’s _love_ , but Jaskier is watching him with wide eyes and all of a sudden the familiar sense of doubt starts to creep back in. Maybe he was wrong, maybe this _isn’t_ what Jaskier wants, just his own mind twisting facts to curry favour with his heart.

Just as he’s about to pull back, to apologise, those blue eyes soften and the bard lets out a ragged little sigh. “Took you long enough,” he murmurs, and then Geralt’s being dragged into a kiss that’s all love and care and searing warmth.

It turns heated quickly, Jaskier’s back wedged up against the doorway as Geralt cages him in, years and years, over two decades’ worth of pent up emotion and desire and need sending them both spiralling as they go. Jaskier’s tongue slides along the seam of Geralt’s lips and he barely recognises the noise he makes as he opens his mouth to let Jaskier in, licking along the ridges of his teeth as he goes. It’s hot, and messy, and completely perfect.

They’re as close as they can be, given their positions, but Geralt needs more, wants more, sliding one of his legs between Jaskier’s thighs just to hear the sharp gasp the bard lets out, breath hitching before he drags the Witcher back in for another kiss, reaching his arms out to wrap around Geralt’s shoulders and grip his back.

There’s a thud and a musical twang, and Geralt pulls himself back far enough to see the lute fallen from Jaskier’s grasp, lying face-up on the stone floor. There’s not a scratch on it, so Geralt turns back to try and get closer again, only to be stopped by a hand on his chest.

“Your lute is fine, Jaskier,” Geralt growls, impatient to get on with it, but is stopped again by a firm push against his chest. Reluctantly, he leans back enough for Jaskier to shimmy out from between him and the wall, scooping up his precious instrument and examining it for and damage. Geralt barely restrains himself from grumbling.

“Patience, love,” Jaskier tells him, and the name does something to Geralt, something that makes him stop and think that waiting for Jaskier is worth it, if he keeps saying things like that. He blinks at the realisation that he _liked_ it, be called that – that _endearment_ – casually, not borne of a need or a whore’s payment. A little more settled, he waits and watches as Jaskier tuts over some invisible scuff mark before finally turning back around. “Now, not that this wasn’t perfectly enjoyable,” he begins, and he’s caught his breath, something Geralt hopes to remedy very soon. “If we’re to continue this, maybe we should go inside? Away from where prying eyes might see?”

At this point, Geralt hardly cares if anyone should see them so long as they get back to what they were doing, but Jaskier already has the door open and has traipsed inside, and Geralt is helpless to do anything but follow. His head is spinning slightly as he closes the door and locks it, watching as Jaskier places his lute on the table and goes to remove his boots. Once they’re gone and his doublet is hanging open, Geralt can’t stand the wait anymore and crosses the room in two quick strides.

Jaskier breathes out a laugh as the backs of his knees hit the bed, sitting down on the edge of it and reaching his hands up to curl in Geralt’s hair and tug him down so they can kiss some more, their air mingling between them, interspersed with quiet noises that neither of them can differentiate between.

“I hope, ah… I _hope_ ,” Jaskier tries to get out as Geralt moves his mouth to the bard’s jaw, “I hope you’re planning on taking your shoes off before you get into this bed. No point in making the sheets dirty.”

Geralt snorts, continuing his path along the side of his bard’s face until he reaches the point just under his ear, sucking a bruise into the skin there and adding just a hint of teeth, smiling at the yelp Jaskier lets out. “I think the sheets are going to get plenty dirty,” he rumbles, and just to get his point across, drags his hand down to cup the front of his bard’s trousers. Jaskier’s eyes go very wide and his breath stutters, heart speeding up slightly, and there’s something about the way that his usual flirtatious cockiness has faded that makes Geralt’s nerves light up. “What, no comeback?”

Jaskier laughs again, quieter, unsure, and Geralt frowns at the noise, pulling back to where Jaskier is watching him carefully, pupils blown wide even as the corners of his mouth twitch downwards in worry. “Sorry, I… sorry. Got a bit lost in my head, is all.”

Geralt sits back on his heels, one hand resting on Jaskier’s knee in a parallel to the action at supper, the other sliding down to rest at the curve of his neck. “Jaskier?”

There’s a beat of silence and Jaskier’s eyes are shining suspiciously at the corners, before he shakes his head once to clear them. “Sorry,” he repeats. “I just can’t believe this is real. Just… just give me a second.”

“Are you…” Geralt feels wrongfooted about this, somehow, knowing that he has everything he wants within grasp but that Jaskier might not be able to give it to him. He would wait, of course he would, but then one of the bard’s hands slips up to the side of his face, running his thumb over the Witcher’s lips.

“I’m fine, Geralt,” Jaskier reassures him, voice soft. They sit like that, for a moment, just basking together, before something flashes in Jaskier’s eyes and he grins. “Now, if you don’t get up here and fuck me within the next _minute_ , Gods know what I’ll do.”

Geralt laughs, but does as he’s asked, surging up to reach Jaskier’s mouth again and push further back onto the bed. “Going to take longer than a minute to prepare you, Jas,” he breathes, and the bard chokes on a moan at his words, hands curling into fists in Geralt’s hair.

“Promises, promise,” he gasps out, and Geralt growls.

After that, it’s clothes tangling on arms and legs, carefree laughter sparkling between them, the heat merging between their two bodies, moans and gasps and bitten-off whimpers cast upwards to the ceiling, the cloying scent of oil as it drips onto fingers and the sticky-wet slide of Jaskier’s body as Geralt enters him, slowly, carefully, mindful of the injuries that still mar the bard’s skin.

Geralt is not a poet, not by any definition of the word, but he could write stanzas about the sweat pooling in the dip of his bard’s throat, the way his eyes roll back in his head when Geralt is fully seated, the way his hands grip his shoulders whenever he hits that spot _just right_ , the arch of Jaskier’s back when he comes, fingers like a vice on Geralt’s skin, digging little crescent moon indentations that he wishes would stay past morning.

He’s not a poet, but seeing Jaskier like this would be enough to inspire anyone.

It’s with a fierce sense of exaltation when he realises that _no one else_ will be able to see his bard like this, not ever again if he has any say in it, that has him following Jaskier over the edge, panting into the curve of his bard’s neck before carefully collapsing onto the bed next to him. Almost immediately, Jaskier curls into his side, one arm strewn over his hip and his head resting just above Geralt’s shoulder.

Jaskier’s breath sounds a bit more pained when he exhales, and Geralt frowns, immediately turning to him with panic rising in his chest. “Jaskier?” he starts, eyes roving over the bard’s shoulders and chest (peppered with red marks, he notes with some pride). “Are you alright?”

“Just sore.” The bard lets out a breathy laugh. “Don’t worry. It’s almost entirely the good kind, I assure you.”

The silence reigns for a time, both of them catching their breath, unwilling to leave the moment, but there’s too much that’s gone unsaid and Geralt can feel the flurry of confusion, the maelstrom of emotion inside of him that has to have some sort of release before he combusts.

“I’m not good at this,” is what comes out of his mouth.

Jaskier chuckles. “I’d say you’re more than good at it.”

“Not that,” Geralt says quickly, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. “Hmm. No, I… I meant _this_. Being with someone. Together.” Jaskier lifts his head a little to look at him, but Geralt can’t face him yet, looking up and keeping his eyes trained on the ceiling as he continues. “Whenever I… get close to someone, it doesn’t end well for them,” he manages to get out. “I’m not good at this. I always mess it up, and I have no fucking clue what to do.”

For a long moment, Jaskier doesn’t say anything, just watches. Just as Geralt’s about to glance over, to check if the bard is alright, he finally speaks up. “I’m not good at this either,” he confesses, a secret shared amongst them. “Never have been. I’ve always fallen in and out of love quickly, had passing flings and fancies that came and went. With you, though,” he pauses, and Geralt can hear the wry smile as he speaks next. “With you, I never fell out of love. I kept expecting it to, and it never happened. Not even with the Djinn, or on the mountain. You’re the one that lasted, Geralt.” His voice dips at the end, and Geralt finally turns to meet his eyes. Jaskier looks back steadily. “I don’t know how to do this either,” he continues. “I’ve never had something like this, that I want to last so _desperately_. But I know I love you, and I’m willing to try.”

Geralt can’t speak, caught in that gaze.

“Do you love me?” Jaskier asks, and that’s the point of it all, isn’t it?

“Yes,” Geralt rasps out. 

He can’t form the words, not yet, not after so many years and over a lifetime of repressing them, but he can see in the way that Jaskier smiles down at him that the bard knows – what’s more, _understands_. He’s never found anyone who could read him the way Jaskier can, the way the bard can hear his one syllable and interpret a wealth of information.

“Well then.” Jaskier nods decisively. “That’s settled. I’ll be with you for the rest of my life, if you’ll have me.”

“It will be a long life,” Geralt blurts out, and now really isn’t the time to be having this conversation, but he’s lost the tight rein he keeps over his words and emotions and things are spilling out of him without his consent. Jaskier looks down at him quizzically, confused. “Part fae. You,” Geralt grunts by way of explanation.

Jaskier blinks. “Huh.” He shakes his head once, twice, then a slow smile creeps onto his face. “That actually... that explains a few things. Right. We're going to have a longer conversation about that later." He pauses. "Well, I guess you’ll just have to put up with me for longer,” he teases, leaning down to press a chaste kiss on Geralt’s lips, tasting and smelling so strongly of honey wine that it makes Geralt dizzy, staring up at his bard as he leans back and fixes him with those blue eyes. “I love you.”

“I… you too,” Geralt says back, as close as he can get to saying the same, and hoping the bard can hear what he’s not actually saying. Jaskier’s face is all fond adoration and understanding, and as he goes to lay back down, curled against his Geralt’s side, the Witcher’s heart has never been fuller.

There’s still a threat, Ciri won’t ever truly be safe, and Geralt knows now what it is to hold Jaskier through countless nightmares, knows that his own life as a Witcher was never going to be easy and never will be, and that he’ll need to tell Jaskier he loves him, in his own words, soon – but for now, they’re safe.

For now, they’re home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it, folks!
> 
> Just so you're aware, this will be a series, I have the plot mapped out for the next one and the prologue & first chapter completed, but it may take a little bit of time before it's ready to go up as my university starts in less than a week!
> 
> I want to thank everyone for their patience and all of the support from those who were along for the ride, I really enjoyed writing this and all of your kudos and comments were so encouraging! Thank you so, _so_ much!!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back!!! 
> 
> And it's not an AU this time, another miracle! This is a work I've been planning for a while, and I'm really happy to get it started. There's going to be a lot of hurt and a bunch of angst, so be prepared for that - but I can promise there will be a happy ending! Anyways, updates will go up every few days, and this chapter is a bit short just because it's the first one, the others will be longer!
> 
> Alright, that's that, I hope you all enjoy it!


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